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Ivatfjarinr dfrmsfjatn 


By 

BEATRICE HARRADEN 


cAuthor of “ Ships That Pass in the 
Night,” “ In Varying oMoods,” etc. 



NEW YORK 

Dodd, Mead and Company' 

1903 


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TZ3 

,H23£ft 


CO l' t 1 ' 

One Cuk'v Ri-CPivetJ 

OCT. 5 f 1903 

Cni»vniGHT FNTRY 

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CLASS CX^XXo. J'J® 

Sbl *0 

COPY C 



Copyright, 1903, by Beatrice Harraden 


Published October , /^oj* 





My thanks are due to Herr Sigurd Hals (Christiania) 
for his permission to use from his “Hals-Album” the 
Norwegian folk-songs: Aagot’s mountain-song. Astri, 
mine astri. Come , haul the water. Home from the 
Saeter. Yes , we love our mountain-country. 

My thanks are due to Herr Wilhelm Hausen (Copen- 
hagen) for his permission to use from his “Danmark’s 
melodie bog” the Danish song: Thou who hast sorrow 
in thy heart. 

My thanks are due to Herr Abraham Lundquist 
(Stockholm) for permission to use from his “Svenska 
Folkvisor” the Swedish songs: The lover whom I love 
so well and At day-time when Fm working. 

Beatrice Harraden. 


Hampstead, June, 1903. 






























































>-<■ - - 









































































































































































































































































































CONTENTS 


PART I. 

In England. 

PAGE 

Chapter 1 1 

Chapter II 5 

Chapter III 15 

Chapter IV 20 

Chapter V 35 

Chapter VI. 47 

Chapter VII 56 

Chapter VIII 68 

Chapter IX 82 

Chapter X 92 

Chapter XI. 98 

Chapter XII 101 

Chapter XIII 110 


PART II. 

In Norway. 

Chapter 1 121 

Chapter II 128 

Chapter III 137 

Chapter IV 144 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Chapter V 148 

Chapter YI 155 

Chapter YII 167 

Chapter YIII 174 

Chapter IX 184 

Chapter X 195 

Chapter XI 228 

Chapter XII 240 

Chapter XIII 252 

Chapter XIV 257 

Chapter XV 266 

Chapter XVI 275 

Chapter XYII. 279 

Chapter XVIII 286 

Chapter XIX , 310 

Chapter XX 328 


PART III. 

In England. 

Chapter 1 334 

Chapter II 344 

Chapter III 349 

Chapter IV 353 

Chapter V 359 


KCalljarmr Jffmtaljam 


Midway the road of our life’s term they met, 

And one another knew without surprise; 
Nor cared that beauty stood in mutual eyes ; 
Nor at their tardy meeting nursed regret. 

To them it was revealed how they had found 
The kindred nature and the needed mind, 
The mate by long conspiracy designed ; 

The flower to plant in sanctuary ground. 

George Meredith. 


PART I— IN ENGLAND 

CHAPTER I. 

, , \ 0 YOU understand, Alan, my boy?” 

I 1 asked Clifford Thornton. “No, father, 
^ I don’t,” the boy said in a low voice. 

“It seems all such a fuss about nothing. 
Why can’t you and mother have it out like any other 
fellows, and then make it up and be friends ? You can’t 
think how easy it is.” 

“We have been doing that for fifteen years and more 
— all your lifetime,” the man said. 

“I never knew it was as bad as that,” Alan said. 

“We tried to spare you the full knowledge of it,” the 
man answered gently. “But now that you are old 


2 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


enough to know, we are obliged to tell you that we are 
not, never have been, happy together, and that we do not 
wish to be together. We spoil each other’s lives.” 

Alan was sitting on the sofa. He stirred a little, 
and then suddenly, without any warning, burst into 
tears. Although he admired his mother’s personality 
and bearing, he had never been particularly attached to 
her, but with that conservative conventionalism char- 
acteristic of an English boy, he was mortified and felt it 
to be a disgrace that there should be any serious dis- 
agreement between his parents. 

Clifford Thornton looked at the boy whom he loved 
and whom he had wounded, and he recognised with a 
sharp pain of regret that Alan was still too young and 
too sensitive for the news which had been broken to him. 
Bitterly the man reproached himself for his selfishness. 
And yet he had waited for this moment for fifteen long 
years — more than that, for he and his wife had discov- 
ered at the onset that they were out of sympathy, each 
having an aura hostile to the other. Then the child had 
come, and these two naturally antipathetic people had 
thought: “We shall draw nearer to each other because 
of the child.” 

But Nature is merciless in many of her ways, and 
mysterious ; and perhaps her greatest and subtlest human 
mystery is the strife, conscious or unconscious, of one 
individuality with another individuality. And she gives 
no balm for it. On the contrary, she gives a sort of 
morbid remorse, wholly out of proportion to the quality 
and quantity of mistakes and failings born necessarily 
of unsuitable companionship. 


KATHAKINE FBENSHAM 


3 


Clifford Thornton bent over him and put his hand on 
the lad’s shoulder. 

“Alan,” he said, almost imploringly. “Don’t fret like 
that. We will talk about it another time. Come, pull 
yourself together. We will go for a ride, and you can 
try the new cob.” 

The boy sobbed on as though he had not heard. 

“Alan,” Clifford Thornton said. 

The boy looked up, and stifled his last sob. 

“I don’t want to go riding,” he said. “I want to go 
and be alone.” 

He rose from the sofa and dried his eyes. He did not 
seem ashamed of his tears ; he offered no excuses for his 
sudden outburst of grief. 

“I’m awfully upset, father,” he said with trembling 
voice. 

“I have done you an injury to-day,” his father said, 
“and I can never forgive myself. I have taken away 
from you something which I can never give back — that 
splendid belief of childhood that everything is all going 
on all right.” 

Alan did not seem to hear. He took his cap from the 
writing-table and turned towards the door. It was evi- 
dent that he wanted to say something to his father, but 
that the words would not come. He opened the door 
slowly and passed out. Clifford Thornton watched him, 
and watched the door close, and then stood still a 
moment, waiting, longing and listening. But when he 
realised that the boy had indeed gone, he slipped into 
his study chair and leaned back, his arms folded tightly 
together, and his thin face drawn into an expression of 
great pain. The thoughts which passed through his 


4 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


mind kept him chained there, as one paralysed. Not a 
muscle of his face moved. He might have been a dead 
man staring at nothing. At last, perhaps half an hour 
afterwards, the door opened, and Alan came back. 

“Father,” he said shyly. “It’s all right now. Let us 
go riding, after all.” 

The strain on the man's face relaxed. Father and 
son clasped hands. 


CHAPTER II. 


M RS. THORNTON, who had been making a 
tour in Scotland with her friend, Mrs. 
Stanhope, returned to her home the next 
day after Clifford Thornton’s interview 
with his boy. The Thorntons lived in Surrey, in a 
beautiful house standing with fifteen acres of untouched 
heather around it, not far from Farnham. It was called 
“Falun” after the place in Dalecarlia, Sweden, where 
Clifford Thornton’s father had been educated at the 
celebrated School of Mines, since removed to Stockholm. 

Mrs. Thornton arrived at Farnham about five o’clock. 
Alan went to meet her at the station, and even during 
their drive home to “Falun,” Mrs. Thornton noticed that 
there was something unusually strained in the boy’s man- 
ner. She herself was in a state of great mental excite- 
ment, having been urged by her friend, Mrs. Stanhope, 
who had always taken an unsympathetic view of 
Clifford’s character, to propose to him a deed of separa- 
tion without further delay. 

Marianne Thornton was a beautiful, imperious woman, 
with an impossible temper and impracticable tempera- 
ment; she never had been, and never could have been 
controlled by anyone. But this evening, something 
tugged at her heart when she saw that her boy, whom 
she loved in her turbulent way, was in trouble ; and when 
they were alone in her boudoir, she questioned him in 


6 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


her abrupt fashion which so often jarred on her husband 
consciously and her son unconsciously. 

“Father told me yesterday that you were not happy 
together/* he said shyly, as he played with the spoon in 
his teacup. “It upset me rather. I am awfully sorry 
about it, mother.** 

He did not look at her when he spoke, and did not see 
the sudden flash on her handsome face. She herself had 
meant to tell Alan. It had never entered her head for 
one moment that Clifford, who, so she knew in her heart 
of hearts, had borne with her patiently, would have taken 
the initiative and opened the subject to her boy in her 
absence. She was stung beyond bearing. 

“Happy,** she said excitedly. “Who could be happy 
with your father? So he has been speaking to you 
about me, has he ? And what has he been daring to say 
against me?** 

“He never said anything against you,** the boy an- 
swered, in a low voice. “He only told me you were not 
happy together.** 

She arranged the cushions on the sofa angrily, and 
leaned amongst them angrily : 

“Happy,** she said. “I should like to know who could 
be happy with your father — a man of no heart, no emo- 
tions, selfish beyond words, and unkind beyond belief ?** 

“Oh, mother, that*s not true,** the boy said, with an 
indignant outburst. “Father is always good and kind. 
I never once heard him say an unkind word to you or 
me. It*s all your fault. It*s your temper. That*s 
what it is.** 

His championship of his father aroused all the anger 
and jealousy in her nature. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


7 


She got up from the sofa and turned to him. 

“You are just like him,” she said passionately, “just 
like him. Make your lives together and find your hap- 
piness in each other. I don’t want either of you.” 

She hastened from the room, swept down the stairs, 
swept through the hall, through the study and flung the 
door of the laboratory violently open. 

Clifford, who was a chemist, was distilling over a 
flame a substance which represented more than a month’s 
work. Marianne’s sudden entry made him jerk the 
bottom of the flask containing it against the ring of the 
retort-stand. The flask cracked, and in an instant the 
whole of the contents blazed off and disappeared. 

She did not notice and would not have cared if she 
had noticed. 

“What have you been saying to the boy?” she asked, 
in her tempestuous manner. 

Clifford moved round, looked at her, and leaned 
against the bench. 

“I have told him that we are not happy, and that we 
must part,” he answered. 

Something in his manner, something in his face, in 
the tone of finality in his voice arrested her. She glanced 
at him, glanced at the obvious signs of his lost labour, 
and some words rose to her lips, but she did not speak 
them. She went towards the door, and there she paused 
and turned towards him. He was still leaning against 
the bench, and his whole bearing denoted that of a man 
who can deal no more with despairing conditions. She 
knew then that everything was over between them. She 
retired to her room and was not seen any more that 
evening. 


8 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


Father and son took their dinner in silence, and no 
reference was made to Mrs. Thornton’s absence. It was 
tacitly understood by them both that she was in one of 
her tempers, which were, alas, part and parcel of the 
“Falun” everyday life. 

Clifford and the boy played a game of billiards, and 
then both father and son went to develop some photo- 
graphs in the dark room, which adjoined the laboratory. 
They were not happy; but like two criminals, they felt 
a certain amount of easement in being together. 

At last Alan went to bed, and his father shut himself 
up in his laboratory and tried to work out some struc- 
tural formulae in connection with certain experimental 
data he had obtained. But his mental serenity had been 
disturbed by his wife’s return, and he was disheartened 
by the loss of the result of his work. That was only one 
of the many times when Marianne had burst into the 
laboratory and spoilt his experiments, and he was an- 
noyed with himself for not having remembered to turn 
the key and thus secure himself from an unwelcome 
intrusion. He struggled some time with conflicting 
thoughts, but eventually came into his study and drew 
his chair up to the fire; for it was a cold September 
night. He sat there staring at the fire, and his mind 
wandered back to his happy student days under Bayer in 
Munich, and Hofmann in Berlin, when everything 
seemed possible to him because his mind was free from 
harassment. He glanced at Hofmann’s portrait, which 
was hanging over the mantelpiece, and he heard once 
more the man’s genial voice and felt the charm of his 
genial presence. A thrill of pleasure and enthusiasm 
passed through him. For three years he had studied 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


9 


with Hofmann, and had finally become his private 
assistant, only leaving him to take over the Professorship 
of Chemistry at Aberystwith College, which he held for 
two years. Then his father, a mining engineer, died, 
leaving him a considerable fortune ; and he was thus able 
to devote himself entirely to research work — his subjects 
being the study of stereo-isomeric compounds, and 
syntheses amongst the vegetable alkaloids. It was dur- 
ing his last year at Berlin that he had met and married 
Marianne Dacre, the beautiful daughter of a widowed 
Englishwoman keeping an English boarding-house in 
the German capital. When his father died, they settled 
down with their little son at “Falun,” and from that 
moment until this very evening, happiness had been a 
stranger to the home. Yet the man was made for 
happiness. He would have been glad enough to love and 
be loved. But he had, of his own free will, chosen badly, 
and he had to pay the penalty. And he paid it with all 
the chivalry and kindness which were part of his nature. 
But the moment had come when he realised that he had 
paid enough, and as he sat there, half-musing, half- 
dozing, he said : 

“I have paid enough. I can and will pay no more.” 

And suddenly he fell asleep from sheer mental exhaus- 
tion, and he dreamed. He dreamed that he was telling 
his wife all his locked inmost thoughts of her. He had 
kept them controlled so long and so sternly, that now 
they came tumbling out with reckless abandonment. 

“You have never known me for what I am,” he said 
passionately. “You have spoiled my life, my spirit, and 
ruined my best talents. I tell you I had talents before 
you came and trampled on them. Listen to me. If 


10 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


ever a man has been spiritually murdered, it is I. But 
now the barrier of silence has broken down, and I dare 
to tell you what in my inmost heart I really think of 
you. I dare to tell you that I despise your paltry mind 
and petty temperament; that your atmosphere is an 
insult to me, and that I long and thirst and am starved 
to be free from the pressure of your daily presence. 
You have been merciless to me with your uncontrolled 
rages, your insane jealousies of me, my work, my 
ambitions and my friends. I can bear it all no longer. 
The day on which we go our own ways, will be the 
day of my re-birth. And that day shall be to-morrow — 
now — even now. No, no, don’t begin to argue with me, 
Marianne. There is nothing you can say to me either 
about yourself or the boy that could alter my determina- 
tion. We have delayed too long already, and the precious 
years are passing. Sixteen wasted years — oh, the hope- 
less folly of them, and leading to what? No, no. I’ll 
listen to no more arguments — there is no sense in this 
continued penance. We must and shall part to-morrow ; 
no, no — now — this moment — ah, at last, at last — free- 
dom at last.” 

He awoke and looked around his quiet study. 

“Ah,” he said, “it was a dream. I am glad in spite 
of everything that it was a dream. I am glad that I did 
not say those things to her in reality. The look of pain 
and astonishment on her face would have haunted me all 
my life. 

He shuddered. 

“Oh, it was horrible,” he said. “Poor Marianne, poor 
Marianne, you must not know the truth which kills. 


KATHAKINE FKENSHAM 11 

Poor Marianne, we must pick up the bits to-morrow — 
somehow.” 

Then he turned down the lights, and went upstairs. 
His wife’s door was open, and he heard her voice calling 
him. 

“Clifford, Clifford!” she cried, as though in some 
great danger. 

He hastened his steps and found Marianne standing 
in the middle of the room, her hair dishevelled, her eyes 
transfixed, and her face bearing the same expression of 
pain and astonishment which he had seen in his dreams. 

“Good God !” he cried. “What is it, Marianne ?” 

“Oh, Clifford,” she sobbed, “I dreamed that you had 
been telling me you hated and despised me, that I was 
an insult to your life and talents, that I had ruined your 
life, murdered your spirit, and crushed out all the best 
in you. Tell me, tell me, it was only a dream. I know 
we have not been happy, but — but — it could not have 
been as bad as that. Tell me, it was only a dream — but, 
oh, Clifford, it was so vivid, so penetrating that I cannot 
believe it was a dream. I heard your voice — your real 
voice ; tell me — tell me ■” 

“It was only a dream,” he said excitedly, “nothing 
but a dream. You must not look like that. I cannot 
bear you to look like that. It is more than I can bear. 
You must forget about it, and we will begin all over 
again to-morrow. I never said those things to you — 
thank Heaven, I never said them to you — it was only a 
dream — your dream — and my dream.” 

He could have bitten his tongue out after he had said 
those last words. 


12 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Your dream?” she cried, with a ring of despair in 
her voice. 

“Oh, Marianne,” he said, gathering himself, and all 
the best in himself together for victory over his tempera- 
ment and hers — “oh, Marianne, we are not to be held 
responsible for our dreams. You know how it is with 
our restless, wayward fancies : one little passing discord 
in real life becomes magnified and expanded into an 
immense orchestra of discordant strains in that dream- 
life over which we seem to have no control. Don’t you 
understand — can’t you understand ?” 

“You dreamed it,” she said slowly, “and it was so 
vivid to you that it broke through all barriers and 
reached me in my dream. It must have been born of 
your inmost thoughts, bred up and strengthened through 
these long years of our misunderstandings, until it 
reached its full maturity. We should indeed each have 
gone a separate way long ago. But it is not too late, 
even now.” 

“Not too late to find the key to each other even now,” 
he said. “Let us try to do it. Where others have failed, 
let us make a triumph. It is not our hearts which are 
at war, Marianne: our hearts mean well to each other. 
It is our temperaments which cause all the strife.” 

“We can make no triumph,” she answered. “I have 
ruined your life, murdered your spirit, crushed out the 
best in you.” 

“It was a dream,” he cried passionately. “Let it go 
the way of all dreams,” 

She shook her head. 

“We must part to-morrow,” she said, “and to-morrow 
will be the day of your re-birth.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


13 


“You stab me with your words,” he said, as he passed, 
with head bowed, to the door. 

“And you stab me with your dreams,” she replied. 

“We are both very unhappy,” he said, as he paused on 
the threshold. 

“Yes,” she said, “very unhappy.” 

And she closed her door. 

He stood alone on the landing. There was not a 
sound to be heard within the house or without. It was 
a still September night, so that even the branches of the 
trees were not moved in music. The harvest moon 
shone in coldly. The world seemed lonely to that lonely 
man. 

“What a failure I have made of everything,” he said 
to himself — “even of my silence.” 

He longed for some kind word, for some arresting 
glance of sympathy ; but life could yield nothing to him 
in his moment of need. He thought of his boy whom 
he loved with all his heart, and he remembered only that 
he had deliberately made the lad suffer. He forgot all 
the years of intimate companionship which they two had 
enjoyed together, all the secret understanding so precious 
to both of them. These memories, which might have 
comforted him, and eloquently too, were silent; and 
because he was gentle and generous-hearted, he had to 
pay the uttermost price for the emotions which were the 
finest in his nature. He remembered only that he had 
wounded Marianne — hurt her to the quick, and that if 
he got his liberty — after fifteen years of bondage — he 
would be even as a released prisoner to whom the sweets 
of freedom had become distasteful. 

He went mechanically down the stairs, let himself out 


14 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


of the hall-door, and stole round to the stables. Bully, 
the bull-terrier, knew his masters footstep, and, as a 
welcome, beat his tail against his kennel. Jinny, the 
brown mare, was asleep at the time; but she woke up 
and neighed softly when she heard her master’s voice, 
and was eager enough to be saddled for a midnight ride. 
It was not the first time that she had been called upon 
to sacrifice her own slumbers to his restlessness. Many 
a time she and he had ridden out into the darkness and 
the tempest and the moonlight of the night. 

When he came back again, it was nearly five o’clock. 
Worn out in body and spirit, he flung himself on his bed, 
fell asleep, and only awoke to the sound of some com- 
motion in the house, and cries of “Father, father.” He 
sprang up, opened the door, and found Alan outside. 

“Father,” he cried. “Mother ” 

Clifford Thornton saw the look of alarm on his boy’s 
face, and rushed to Marianne’s room. The door stood 
open. Marianne was leaning back in the arm-chair — 
dead. 


CHAPTER III. 


T HERE was, of course, an inquest, and then 
poor Marianne Thornton was laid to rest in 
the little Surrey churchyard five miles from 
“Falun.” The verdict was death from sud- 
den failure of the hearths action, due probably to some 
shock, the exact nature of which was unknown. 

“She must have had some shock, some great fright,” 
Dr. Aldborough deposed. “The expression on her face 
was that of excessive alarm. It may have been a dream — 
I have met with three such curious instances in my ex- 
perience. Moreover, it was known to us all, that Mrs. 
Thornton was suffering from valvular disease of the 
heart. She had only lately been consulting a new heart- 
specialist.” 

“It was a dream,” Clifford Thornton stated, “and she 
called to me and I found her, with that same expression 
of alarm on her face, and I tried to calm her and failed. 
And feeling heavy of heart, I saddled my horse and went 
riding.” 

“And the nature of the dream?” he was asked. 

He shook his head. 

“I do not know,” he said. “I only know it was a 
dream.” 

He had made up his mind to keep that secret, chiefly 
for Alan’s sake. He felt that he had already injured the 


16 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


boy, and no word of his should now add to the heavy 
burden of hastened knowledge. 

"If I began to speak of it,” he said to himself, "I 
should go on to tell him that I had killed her — and in 
time he would believe it — even as I do.” 

That was the torturing thought which at once began 
to assail him, although he fought it with all the weapons 
of reason and commonsense. He fought it even at the 
side of the grave, his impenetrable face showing no sign 
of the mental torture which he was enduring unhelped 
by anyone. But when they came back to "Falun” after 
the funeral, he put his hands on Alan’s shoulders and 
said sorrowfully : 

"Alan, I would give my right hand, and the sight of 
my eyes, and the strength of my brain, if only I could 
unsay what I said to you the other day about your 
mother.” 

"Oh, father,” the boy answered, in a paroxysm of 
grief, "perhaps we did not love her enough.” 

He broke off there, and they did not speak together 
further, both being of painfully-reserved natures; but 
each wrung the other’s hand silently, in token of closer 
friendship, and throughout that sad day they did not 
leave each other’s side. The doctor called in during the 
afternoon, and found them in the study sitting close to- 
gether and trying to interest themselves in a new book 
on architecture, which was Alan’s beloved subject, and 
for which he had undoubted talent. They looked so 
desolate and pathetic, that Dr. Aldborough, who had al- 
ways been attracted to this reserved man and his son, 
was concerned for their welfare. He offered no untimely 
word of comfort or cheer, but he said to them: 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


17 


“Come out with me. It is a splendid afternoon. I 
have to drive over to Midhurst, and the air will do you 
both good. You will sleep better. And Alan shall 
handle the greys, whilst we smoke.” 

The boy brightened up at once. 

“Let us go, father,” he said, a little eagerly. 

“You go,” his father answered. “I think I shall stay 
here.” 

“Then I shall stay,” Alan said. “I couldn’t be with- 
out you.” 

“In that case we will both go,” Professor Thornton 
answered, smiling ; and so they went off, thankful really 
for the break in that long day. 

When they came back that evening, they were a little 
more cheerful in spite of themselves, and Alan went to 
bed and slept, and Clifford wrote to his old Danish 
governess, Miss Knudsgaard, telling her of his wife’s 
sudden death and asking her to come over. Then he 
sat thinking of his dead wife and of all the circumstances 
of their married life. He recalled to himself how bitter- 
ness of spirit and tenderness of intention had been ever 
at war within him. He had no sooner recovered from 
an attack of bitterness, than he was assailed by prolonged 
paroxysms of self-reproach, which tore him to shreds 
even more ruthlessly than his feelings of self -commisera- 
tion. He recalled all the petty strain and stress of 
trifling tragedies which had been steadily impairing his 
mental serenity. He hardened himself when he thought 
of that. 

“This tragedy has happened,” he said, “and through 
no fault of mine. I must not let it spoil the rest of my 
life. I am forty-three. What cannot a man still do 


18 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


and be at forty-three? I will battle with it until I 
conquer it. It shall not crush me. No, it shall not.” 

He rose from his chair with a grim determination in 
his manner. 

“Do you hear what I say?” he said, as though to a 
vast audience. “It shall not crush me.” 

Then his eyes lighted on a box of his wife’s letters 
and papers which had been found in her room. He 
opened the box, and took out some of the papers. A 
few of them were receipted accounts. Several of them 
were letters evidently written on that last night, gummed 
down, and stamped ready for the post. One was to her 
intimate friend, Julia Stanhope, with whom she had 
been touring in Scotland : a woman whom he had always 
disliked, and who, so he thought, had always encouraged 
poor Marianne’s displays of uncontrolled anger. He put 
the letters into the post-box. And here apparently was 
her journal. He did not know that she had kept a 
journal. He smiled sadly as he thought of all the stormy 
scenes it must surely record. He did not read it. He 
tore it up and put the fragments in the fire, and watched 
them curl up and carry their secret away with them. 
But one page, the last page, had escaped the destruction, 
and fell at his feet. He picked it up and he saw these 
words : 

September 20th. Had another temper to-night. As 
usual, bitterly, bitterly sorry. If only I could tell him, 
but I can't, and I won't. 

Those must have been her last written words. They 
touched most tender chords in the man’s highly-strung 
gentle nature. He forgot his own sufferings: his own 
outraged peace and harmony of spirit : his own ambitions 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


19 


and schemes marred by constant turmoil of mind: his 
own broad outlook on life stealthily fenced in now in 
one direction, and now another, by her compelling petti- 
ness of temperament. All this he forgot. She had not 
understood him — but — had he ever understood her? 
Ah, that was it — that was the crux of the whole matter ; 
and he remembered now that never once had she re- 
proached him with that. Never once had she said to 
him: 

“And do you think there has been nothing to under- 
stand in me? I may not be the marvellous person you 
suppose yourself to be. I may not have all the gifts you 
are supposed to have ; but at least I am a human being, 
with my own necessities and crying demands, no less 
importunate with me than yours with you.” 

Never had she said that to him. But he said it to 
himself over and over again, and almost broke his heart 
in the repeating of it. 


CHAPTER IV. 


u 


A 


ND so you have come home at last, dear 
old Katharine/’ Roland Frensham said 
to his sister as they both sat over the fire 
in the music-room of Ronald’s house in 
Kensington, one evening in the middle of March. “It 
is good to see you again.” 

Katharine Frensham said nothing, but held out her 
hand, which her brother grasped silently. There was a 
harmony in the atmosphere : a silent song of friendship. 
The faces of both brother and sister wore that expression 
of quiet happiness always unmistakable when people of 
the right temperament are feeling how gracious a thing 
it is to be together once more. The music-room, too, 
delicately furnished, was restful to the eye; and there 
seemed to be an appropriate sympathy between the pic- 
tures on the walls, the books on the shelves, and the mu- 
sical instruments, some of the latter lying about casually, 
and others carefully enshrined in a Chippendale cabinet. 
A small organ at the other end of the room gave a dig- 
nity to the surroundings peculiar entirely to the presence 
of that most compelling of all musical instruments. A 
little white Pomeranian dog was curled up in front of 
the fire, and added for the time to the effect of peaceful- 
ness. Of course one knew that directly the music began, 
he would get up, yell, refuse to be removed, and go as 
near as possible to the very source of his nerve-disturb- 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


21 


ance; but for the moment he was in a dog’s Paradise; 
on the best rug in the room and near those he loved 
best, and therefore in tune with self and circumstance. 

It was now nearly three years since Ronald had mar- 
ried, and Katharine had left England to travel about 
the world alone. She and her brother had always been 
close friends, and their companionship had ever been a 
joy to themselves and to those who knew them. Since 
childhood they had been called “the inseparables.” They 
had fished together ; climbed trees ; fought ; followed the 
otter hounds in their old Somersetshire home; stolen; 
ridden, and accomplished all their fun and wickedness 
in close partnership. And together they had loved their 
mother passionately. And when she died, she said to 
them : “Love each other always — promise me, whatever 
comes — whatever befalls. Stand by each other.” And 
boy and girl of fifteen and sixteen then, they said: 
“Always — always.” 

So the years passed. They grew up and made their 
home together alone. Ronald became head of the organ- 
building business left to him and Katharine by their 
father, and thus they were partners in business as well 
as in pleasure. And they were still called the insepar- 
ables. People said : “Ah, Katharine is somewhere 
about, for I see Ronald.” Or they said : “Ronald cannot 
be far off, as Kath has arrived.” There was a story that 
Ronald had said at a picnic: “Nothing more for me, 
thanks, and nothing more for my sister !” 

But at last the inevitable happened: Roland became 
engaged to an attractive girl, and Katharine had the 
bitter experience of becoming a secondary consideration 


22 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


in his life. And then people said : “What will Katharine 
do ? How will she take it ?” 

She behaved splendidly, and bore herself in a manner 
worthy of her warm and generous nature. 

“Ronald and Gwendolen shall have a joyous engage- 
ment-time,” she said to herself. “I will keep all my 
jealous feelings locked up in an iron safe.” 

And they had it, unmarred by any sadness or jealousy 
on her part. Nevertheless, she suffered; for she and 
Gwendolen had nothing in common. Katharine had the 
free spirit and the broad outlook. Gwendolen was essen- 
tially of the world, worldly, belonging to that ever- 
increasing community known as “smart”; with no out- 
look worth speaking of, but, for all that, delightfully 
engaging in her beauty and her bearing. In her metallic 
way, too, she was appreciative of Katharine’s kindness, 
and she made a very real attempt to accept the sister- 
liness affectionately offered to her. 

But they spoke a different language. That was the 
only criticism Katharine made of her, and then only to 
Willy Tonedale, her old friend and admirer. 

“Well, my dear Kath,” he had drawled out as he 
twirled his moustache, “all I can say is that I prefer 
your language. It is more intelligible. Perhaps it may 
be because I am supposed to have a slow brain. Anyway, 
you’re behaving like a brick to them both, and Ronnie 
is a deuced old duffer for giving you up. I would not 
have given you up if you’d been my sister, or my grand- 
mother, or my great-grandmother, for the matter of 
that.” 

“Nonsense, Willy!” Katharine had answered laugh- 
ingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. It is right that Ronnie 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


23 


should marry. It all comes in the day’s march; and I 
might have been the one to have given him up.” 

And she said that to Ronald, when for the last time 
he and she sat together by their fireside on the eve of his 
marriage. She comforted him when, in spite of his 
passionate adoration of and desire for Gwendolen, he 
felt torn by the thought that he was entering on a new 
life and giving up Kath irrevocably. 

“Kath, dear old senior partner,” he said, “I feel — 
terribly upset about you — now it comes to the point — 
I ” 

He broke off, but there was no need to finish the 
sentence, for Katharine knew. 

“It is all right, dear old chap,” she answered. “And 
you see, we are friends for life. And I might have been 
the one to leave you. I nearly did three times !” 

“Four times,” he said quaintly. “You never own up 
to four times !” 

And they both laughed. They had had many merry 
times over some of Katharine’s passing love affairs. 

“But at least you will live near us,” Ronnie said. 

She shook her head. 

“I am going to travel,” she answered. “I am going to 
the ends of the earth. You know I’ve always wanted 
to see the great vast countries of the great world. And 
this is my chance. You have some one to love you and 
look after you, and I can go forth. But I want you to 
promise me one thing. Don’t give up your music. 
Don’t give up your Wednesday evening quartette meet- 
ings. I should love to think that you had kept that 
pleasure out of our old life, and that Herr Edelhart, 
Monsieur Gervais, Signor Luigi, and yourself, were con- 


24 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


tinuing to fiddle together on Wednesday evenings. And 
when I come back, I shall try to arrive on quartette- 
night/’ 

That was three years ago, and now Katharine had 
returned from her wanderings and arrived at her 
brother’s house on quartette-day. She left her things 
at the Langham, intending to take up her quarters there 
until she should have made up her mind how to shape 
her life. But Ronald seemed hurt, and so she consented 
to stay a few days in his beautiful home. Gwendolen 
was away, but she was coming back the next morning, 
and Ronald assured Katharine that his wife’s welcome 
to the returned traveller would be as warm as his own. 
Meantime brother and sister, alone together, renewed the 
sweet old intimacy which had been so dear to them both. 
They talked of old times, old bits of fun, old difficulties, 
old bits of mischief, old quarrels, old reconciliations. 

“Do you remember that day when I shook you?” 
Ronald said. “We had had a terrible upset over one of 
my love affairs, and I lost my temper, and you remained 
quite silent and stared into the fire. You were most 
irritating.” 

“And I claimed damages, three theatres and a new 
evening dress,” Katharine said. “And Signor Luigi 
declared we ought both to be heartily ashamed of our- 
selves for quarrelling, and that the only way of effacing 
the disgrace was by giving him a new violoncello bow ! 
I have always thought that was so funny.” 

“Well, he uses the bow to this day and calls it his 
Queen,” Ronald said. “How glad they will all be to see 
you. They have no idea that you have come back. 
Every night after we have played, we have drunk your 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 25 

health: each of us taking it in turn to propose the 
toast. 

‘To the illustrious Signorina.’ 

‘To the wunderbar Fraulein.’ 

‘To the gracieuse English Mees/ 

‘To the senior partner/ ” 

The tears came into Katharine’s eyes. 

“I am so glad you have remembered me/’ she said. 

He rose as he spoke, perhaps to hide his own eyes, and 
he began to get out the music. 

“Do you know this is the last of our quartette-meet- 
ings ?” he said. “Gwendolen does not like them. They 
seem to interfere with other arrangements. Every in- 
vitation that ever ought to be accepted, appears to be 
fixed for that evening in the week. But I’m awfully 
sorry. 

Katharine was silent. 

“I should have given them up long ago but that I 
promised you,” he said. “I think they are a little out 
of Gwendolen’s line, you know. And I want to please 
her. I always want passionately to please her. She is 
my life, my whole life.” 

“Then you are really happy, Ronnie,” she said gently. 

“Yes, yes,” he said, his face lighting up, “of course 
I am. Only sometimes I am rather worried about money, 
Kath, and think we are spending too much. It seems 
to take such a frightful lot of money to keep up with 
other people — and, oh well, we can talk about it another 
time — but the quartette costs money, and I think I must 
let it go at last. It was different when I was unmar- 
ried.” 

“Let me stand the quartette, old fellow,” Kath said in 


26 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


her impulsive way. “I like four people to drink my 
health regularly once a week.” 

“No, no,” he said, smiling at her. “You must keep 
your money for yourself.” 

And then he added : 

‘‘Where are you going to live, and what are you going 
to do?” 

“I am going to live in a flat in Westminster, that is 
my idea,” she answered. “When you have been away 
a long time from England, you yearn to be within sight 
of the dear old Thames, the Houses of Parliament, and 
the Abbey. I have often closed my eyes and seen West- 
minster in a vision.” 

“Do you never intend to marry one of the many men 
who want you, Kath?” he asked. 

“No,” answered Katharine. “You did not marry 
until you loved passionately, did you ? I shall not marry 
until I love passionately. And as that may never hap- 
pen to me, and the years are passing, I have made up 
my mind to go into the business. The senior partner 
wants at last to be an active partner. I want to have 
something definite to do, Ronnie. I know you won’t 
oppose me.” 

“Dear old girl,” he said warmly, “you shall do as you 
like, and for as long as you like, or for as short. You 
shall receive the clients, help with the correspondence, 
design the organ-cases, voice the reeds, any mortal thing 
you like.” 

“I am sick of travelling merely for travelling’s sake,” 
she went on. “If I had been a clever woman like Mary 
Kingsley, for instance, then I could have contributed 
something useful to the world as the results of my 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


27 


travels. But being what I am, there is no real zest in 
merely moving about aimlessly like any other globe- 
trotter. No, I want something to do. I envy all women 
with a profession, Ronnie. When loneliness comes into 
their lives, they have something which has to be done, 
whether they are sad or gay. That is the salvation of 
men. And I believe it is going to be the salvation of 
women.” 

“Are you very lonely?” he said, turning to her im- 
pulsively. 

“No, no,” she said, gathering herself together. “But 
there have been times when •” 

At that moment the door opened and a sprightly little 
man, with white hair, leapt into the room. When he 
saw Katharine, he stood speechless at first and then 
advanced running: 

“Signorina, the adorable and illustrious Signorina 
once more !” he cried. “Ah, what joy, what delight to 
see you here !” 

“Signor Luigi,” she exclaimed, “how glad I am to see 
you again !” 

“Ah,” he cried, as he shook both her hands time after 
time, and then lightly kissed them, “the world have 
changed places with Heaven. I have not forgot you one 
leetle minute. See here, my pocket-book, your gift, 
nearest my faithful heart. And the bow, ‘my Queen/ 
here she is — under my faithful arm. Ah, she is a 
treasure. We chosed her well — you and ‘brother’ and I. 
Ah, that was a splendid idea of mine !” 

“Yes, it was brilliant,” Katharine said, laughing. 
“How often I have laughed over it. How often I have 


28 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


thought of you all. And you see I have kept my word, 
and come back on quartette-night/ 5 

“The last quartette night,” he said. “Alas! But 
never mind. It will be an adorable finishing-up. And 
we will play extra beautiful for the Signorina. I will 
make my violoncello sing superb. The others — they 
shall be nowhere.” 

The door opened once more, and a stately-looking 
German came in carrying his violin-case. He had bushy 
hair and a fierce moustache. 

“Guten Abend, Signor,” he said. “Guten Abend. It 
is sehr kalt to-night. Meine Finger ” 

Then suddenly he saw Katharine, and Signor Luigi 
was only just in time to prevent the violin-case from 
falling to the ground. 

“Lieber Himmel!” he cried. “I do see my distin- 
guished pupil.” 

“Distinguished for my ignorance and impatience, Herr 
Edelhart, wasn’t it?” said Katharine, greeting him. 

“And for wunderbar charm,” added the German fer- 
vently. “Ah, I have had no one so distinguished for 
that. The others have had a little talent or none — gen- 
erally none — and no charm. But Fraulein’s wunderbar 
charm — it could not be described — only felt. Ah, and 
how himmlisch that you are come back. My violin shall 
sing her very best to-night. She shall inspire herself 
to welcome Fraulein. The others shall be nowhere. 
They ” 

Then the door opened again, and a dark little man, 
obviously of French persuasion, came into the room 
looking rather dreamy and preoccupied; but when he 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


29 


saw Katharine, he returned to real life, and his face 
broke out into a radiant smile. 

“Mon Dieu !” he cried. “Mademoiselle have returned 
to us. Ah, le climat detestable of England have become 
a beautiful French printemps. The fogs is gone. My 
dead heart is alive. And Mademoiselle have made the 
miracle.” 

“You see that you have come back to faithful ad- 
mirers, Kath,” Ronald said, laughing. 

“I see that I have come back to faithful flatterers,” 
Katharine answered, as she stood in their midst laugh- 
ing and shaking hands with them repeatedly. “But it is 
all delightful, and I feel years younger at being amongst 
my old friends. How many years have we known each 
other? Isn’t it ten?” 

“Ten years, five months,” said Herr Edelhart accu- 
rately. 

“Onze, onze,” said Monsieur Gervais. 

“Always, always,” cried the Italian, waving his arms 
about in dismissal of time, and then dancing a sort of 
• war-dance round the room. 

“Ah, ha, we have not been so gay since the Signorina 
was cruel enough to leave us,” he cried. “Tra la, la, tra, 
la, la!” 

“Look here, Luigi, we must manage to behave our- 
selves somehow,” said Ronald, catching hold of the little 
Italian. “For there is a stranger coming to-night, and 
he will think we are all mad.” 

“A stranger,” they cried, “and on our last night ?” 

“Oh, hang it all,” said Ronald laughing, “it can’t be 
our last night.” 

“Bravo, bravissimo!” they cried. 


30 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


And Herr Edelhart whispered to Katharine : 

“Eraulein has come home, and ‘brother’ is coming 
back to his senses.” 

“And who is the stranger?” Katharine asked. “And 
how dare he intrude on us at such a moment ?” 

“Ah, poor fellow, he wouldn’t willingly intrude on 
anyone,” Ronald answered. “But I asked him in myself. 
He was a neighbor of ours in Surrey during the sum- 
mer. And I met him several times. He lost his wife 
under very tragic circumstances, and he is a sad man. 
We must not let our gayety jar on him.” 

The door opened, and Professor Thornton was an- 
nounced. 

“Sapristi,” whispered Luigi, “he does not look gay, 
does he?” 

“Mon Dieu !” whispered Gervais. “He belongs to the 
country of fogs. He gives me the sore-throats at once.” 

Katharine had risen to receive Clifford Thornton, 
and when he saw her he said in his grave way : 

“But, surely I know you?” 

“And I know you, surely,” she answered, almost as 
gravely; and for a moment they stood looking at each 
other in silence, surrounded by the four musicians, each 
waiting with his instrument in his hands. 

“Where have you met ?” Ronald asked, turning first to 
Clifford and then to Katharine. “On your travels ?” 

“I do not know,” they said together, and they still 
stood motionless, arrested of body and spirit. 

“Well, now for the quartette,” said the musicians, and 
they resined their bows and tuned up. It was their habit 
to go into raptures over their respective instruments; 
and therefore sighs of content, mysterious expressions of 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


31 


admiration, were soon filling the air. Signor Luigi, 
bending over his violoncello, kept crying out: 

“Ah, per Bacco, what for a treasure ! Light of mine 
eyeballs — light of mine eyeballs — maccaroni of my na- 
tive land, what for a beautiful treasure!” 

They laughed as they always did laugh over the merry 
little Italian, and were just settling down to Beethoven's 
Rasomoffsky Quartette, when Signor Luigi remembered 
the Pomeranian. 

“Ah, ha,” he said, “the adorable dog will howl — he 
must go — he or I must go. We will depart him prestis- 
simo. He will come very, very near and mock us. I 
know him, the rogue! Ah, Signor Professor, many 
thanks, no use you trying to do it. It needs a grand 
genius like myself to depart that amiable animal.” 

“And now I think we are safe,” he said when he had 
expelled the reluctant white Pomeranian and shut the 
door. 

Then the voices and laughter were hushed. Herr 
Edelhart gave the sign, and the quartette began, led off 
by the low notes of the violoncello. Clifford Thornton 
and Katharine sitting in different corners of the room, 
lost themselves in the wonderful regions which music, 
with a single wave of her magic wand, opens to everyone 
desirous of entering. 

“Behold my kingdom,” she whispers, “wander un- 
harmed in all directions — you will find the paths for 
yourselves ■” 

Clifford Thornton, with the war of conflicting emo- 
tions in his heart, entered and found the path of peace. 

Katharine entered too, and trod unconsciously the 
path of noble discontent with self and circumstance. 


32 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Ah, how one rests/’ thought the man. 

“Ah, what an aimless, lonely life I’ve been leading,” 
thought the woman. “No use to myself or anyone ” 

The sounds died away, and the listeners came back 
from their distant wanderings. Katharine looked up 
and met the grave glance of the stranger. 

He seemed to be asking her: 

“Where did we meet, you and I ?” 

And her silent answer was: 

“I cannot tell you, but I have known you always.” 

Two or three times during the next quartette, of 
Brahms, she was impelled to look in his direction, and 
saw him sitting alone at the other end of the room, in 
an isolation of frigid reserve, staring straight at her 
as over a vast, with that strange expression of inquiry 
on his thin, drawn face. She was curiously stirred, cu- 
riously uneasy too. She was almost glad when the quar- 
tette was over and he rose to go. 

He went up to the players and thanked them. Then 
he turned to Katharine: 

“Good-bye,” he said, and a ghost of a smile, which 
he repressed immediately, began to cross his face. “I 
have been trying to think ” 

He broke off. 

“Good-bye,” he said, and he went to the door. 

Ronald followed him out of the room, and everyone 
was silent, until Signor Luigi made an elaborate ges- 
ticulation with his right forefinger, and finally landed 
it in the centre of his forehead : 

“Signor is like me,” he said, “just one leetle poco agi- 
tato in the brains.” 

Ronald came back after a few minutes and said : 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


33 


"Well, now, he did not interfere with us much, did he ? 
And I am sure the music rested him, poor fellow.” 

“Certain it should have given him pleasure,” said Herr 
Edelhart, “for we played grand to-night. I was at my 
wunderbar best. Lieber Himmel, what a tone 1 make ! 
We were all at our wunderbar best because of Fraulein’s 
wunderbar charm.” 

“The Fatherland don’t leave off admiring himselves !” 
whispered Gervais to Katharine. 

“Gentlemen,” said Ronald, “I believe this is an even- 
ing for ’47 port. Are we in tune about it ?” 

“In perfect tune,” they cried. “Bravissimo, ‘brother’ !” 

So in ’47 Port the three foreigners and Ronald toasted 
Katharine, who responded by drinking to the entente 
cordiale of all nations, and the long life and good health 
of the quartette. 

“May it never be shut out like the adorable Pomeran- 
ian dog,” she added, “and if, in a moment of temporary 
aberration it is shut out, may it howl and howl like the 
Pomeranian until it is called in again !” 

When they had all taken their leave, Katharine spoke 
affectionately of these faithful old comrades, and begged 
Ronald to let her at least help him to keep on the quar- 
tette which had been a pleasure to them both for so many 
years. And then, in her own frank way, without any pre- 
liminaries, she asked him about this stranger, Clifford 
Thornton, who had made a great impression on her. 
Ronald told her what was known of the tragedy of Mrs. 
Thornton’s sudden death, which had taken place after 
gome disturbing scene of unhappiness between husband 
and wife. 

“J admire the man,” Ronald said, “It was an awfully 


34 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


sad position for him to be in, and he bore himself with 
fine dignity. And he did not leave his home. He stayed 
on quietly, living down and ignoring the gossip and talk 
of the neighbourhood.” 

Katharine was deeply interested. 

“Poor fellow, poor fellow,” she said. “He looks as if 
he had suffered.” 

She could not forget him. He penetrated into all her 
thoughts that night as she lay awake thinking about her 
plans for the future, about Ronald’s new life in which 
she feared that she would have but little part, about her 
travels of the last three years, about the people she had 
met, talked with, liked, disliked. Her wandering mind 
came ever back to this one thought : 

“We knew each other. But how and where and 
when?” 


CHAPTER V. 


F OR a few months after Mrs. Thornton died, Clif- 
ford Thornton and his boy had stayed quietly 
at home at “Falun.” People in the neigh- 
bourhood were kind in their expressions and ac- 
tions of sympathy, and repeatedly invited both father 
and son to their houses; but the Thorntons had 
always been so reserved, that no real intimacy 
had ever been possible with them. Professor Thorn- 
ton had written to his old governess to come and 
stay with them, and but for her it is difficult to imagine 
what these two desolate people would have done with 
themselves. Broken Knudsgaard, generally called 
“Knutty,” was a cheerful old soul, fully persuaded that 
the world was an excellent place to live and thrive in. 
She was Danish by birth, and the Danes, unlike the Nor- 
wegians, have a large supply of good spirits and the joie 
de vivre. She had lived a great many years in England 
and spoke English perfectly, with a slight foreign ac- 
cent, which was very engaging. Clifford loved her, and 
indeed he might well have done so; for she had taken 
entire charge of him when he was a little child, and had 
lavished on him all the kindness and affection of which 
her warm heart was capable. If in his great trouble he 
could have unburdened his heart to anyone, it would 
have been to Knutty. But apart from the man^s pain- 
ful reticence, his own sense of chivalry made him shrink 


36 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


from confiding in one who could not be generous in her 
estimate of his dead wife’s character. Marianne and 
Froken Knudsgaard had never succeeded in making 
friends ; and after one or two visits to Clifford’s married 
home, Knutty had said: 

“Farvel, Clifford. You must come and see me in 
Copenhagen. I am not coming to you again yet. None 
of us get any pleasure out of the visit, and I only do 
harm to you all. My aura does not match with Mari- 
anne’s aura. But do not let the boy forget me. Speak to 
him sometimes about old Knutty.” 

She immediately packed up and came to him when 
she heard of Marianne’s death; but although he was 
overjoyed at having her near him, he told her nothing. 
Still, it was a comfort to know she was at “Falun;” a 
comfort to sit with her and try to begin to tell her some- 
thing of that which was torturing his mind, even if the 
attempt always ended in failure. 

“Ak, ak,” she reflected, “he was always like that. I 
used to try and make a hole in the ice; and when I 
thought I had succeeded, lo and behold it was frozen 
up again ! People of his temperament have a hard time 
under that ice. Poor dears, all of them.” 

He told her of course the outward circumstances of the 
tragedy, and he made one remark which puzzled her. 

“I am so terribly afraid, Knutty,” he said, “that Alan 
may turn against me.” 

“Sniksnak !” she said. “Why make trouble for your- 
self? Why should he turn against you? If you had 
murdered your poor Marianne, of course then ” 

“Ah, but sometimes I think ” he began, and then 

broke off. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


37 


“I know what I think,” said Froken Knudsgaard, get- 
ting up and tapping him on the head with her knitting- 
needles. “You must go away, and at once. Shut up 
‘Falun/ and turn your back on the laboratory. Take a 
journey immediately.” 

“Shall I come to dear old Denmark ?” he said. In the 
old days he had had many happy times with Knutty in 
Copenhagen. 

“That is not far enough,” she said decisively. “I 
should advise you to go round the world, and at once. 
You have plenty of money and plenty of time. Don’t 
take a million years to make up your mind. Start to- 
morrow : both of you. It will do Alan good to get away. 
He is a dear boy, but he is going to be sensitive like you. 
I wish I could come, too. But I am too old and fat. 
But you must go, Clifford. You cannot stay on here and 
add to your unhappiness by inventing absurd tortures 
for yourself. Go and see some of the Yankees’ labora- 
tories first, and then run out to Japan to see your Japan- 
ese chemist friend at Tokyo. You have always been 
talking about going.” 

“Shall I really go, Knutty?” he asked a little wist- 
fully. 

“Ja, kjaere,”* she answered, nodding at him. “Other- 
wise, you will have to go much further ; you will have to 
go out of your mind. What a nuisance that would be, 
and selfish of you too ! For you would spoil the boy’s 
life, and poor old Knutty’s life. You know how she 
loves to smile and be happy like a true Dane. Take my 
advice, shut up ‘Falun,’ go to London, stay at a hotel for 


Kjaere , dear one. 


38 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


a few days, amuse yourselves, get your kit, spend a lot 
of money, and then take your tickets and be off to J apan. 
And when you come back, call in at Copenhagen and see 
me. We will then go down to your beloved harbour to 
see the ships coming in. Ho you remember how inter- 
ested you used to be in the egg-and-butter ships? Very 
well, is that settled?” 

Clifford Thornton was silent. But he knew that his 
old Dane was right, and that he could not go on day 
after day struggling with his conflicting emotions, with- 
out the immense help of changed circumstances. He 
knew that every hour he spent in his laboratory mooning 
over the subjects on which he could not fix his real atten- 
tion, was wasted time and wasted strength. 

“And as the days go by,” Knutty continued boldly, 
“you will feel differently about everything, dear one. And 
then you must find someone whose aura will be entirely 
sympathetic with your aura. Ah, you shake your head, 
Clifford.” 

“Hush, hush, you must not say that,” he said, turning 
away from her. 

“Ah, well,” she said, half to herself, “perhaps I press 
on too quickly. But you will go away — promise me 
that ? And shut up ‘Falun’ with all its sad memories ?” 

“In my secret heart,” she thought, “I should like to 
blow up ‘Falun’ and have done with the wretched place !” 

“If we go away, will you come too, Knutty?” he said 
eagerly. “We would take such care of you.” 

“Seventy years of age, and seventeen stone in weight !” 
she replied gaily. “No, no kjaere, I should be too heavy 
a responsibility. No, I will wait for you in my own little 
Danish home, made so wickedly comfortable by your 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 39 

kindness; and every day I shall say: ‘My Clifford is 
finding his way into the sunlight again ?’ ” 

He stooped down and kissed her kind old hand. 

“If I could only tell you my inmost thoughts, but I 
cannot,” he said sadly. 

“You never could unfold yourself, dear one,” she 
answered. “You know I always had to guess at what 
was going on within your mind and always guessed 
wrong, of course, and therefore could not help you. I 
am sure there can be no mental or physical suffering so 
great as reluctant repression of the thoughts within us.” 

“Knutty,” he said, after a pause, “do you believe that 
minds can reach each other in dreams ?” 

“I don’t know, kjaere,” she said. “I have never 
reached anyone’s mind, either in a dream or out of one. 
In the years gone by, I prided myself on doing so, and 
then found out that I was mistaken. My present belief 
is that no one mind can ever reach another in reality, 
and that each human being speaks and understands only 
one language — his own language, and everyone else’s 
language is what you English people call a ‘damned for- 
eign tongue.’ Excuse me, dear one, my words may not 
be academic, but they are supposed to be philosophic. 
And that reminds me, that in my opinion, you have been 
a true philosopher, Clifford.” 

“How so, Knutty?” he said. 

“You have asked very little of any one,” she an- 
swered, “and you have made a successful fight with bit- 
terness. That is what I call true philosophy.” 

He shook his head in deprecation of her praise, and 
after another pause, he said : 


40 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Do you think, Knutty, that one might be able to in- 
jure another person in and through a dream?” 

“How should I know ?” she said, looking troubled. “I 
am not given to reflecting on such matters, thank 
Heaven.” 

“If one could injure, one could also benefit,” he said, 
without heeding her answer. “There would at least be 
that comfort — for others.” 

“And why not for you ?” she asked. 

“Alas,” he answered, “my dreams were always the 
other way.” 

But after he had said that, he returned hastily to his 
usual reserve, and Froken Knudsgaard understood him 
too well to press him for a confidence. 

“Besides, it would be waste of tissue,” she said to 
herself. “One would have more success in pressing an 
alabaster effigy.” 

But in this way she had had one or two glimpses into 
his mind, and she was really anxious about his mental 
state, and not happy about Alan either. She kept her 
shrewd old eyes open, and she began to see that Alan 
sometimes avoided being alone with his father. He 
seemed a little awkward with him, as though some 
shadow had risen up between them. He too was re- 
served, and Knutty could not get him to speak of his 
mother’s death. 

“I am living with a pair of icebergs,” she wrote to her 
botanist nephew and niece in Copenhagen, Ejnar and 
Gerda. “Darling icebergs both of them, but icebergs all 
the same. I find this Arctic expedition of mine, like all 
Arctic expeditions, fraught with grave difficulties. Write 
and encourage me, dear ones, and in case I should become 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


41 


a frozen plant, keep an extra warm place for me in the 
herbarium of your hearts.” 

But Alan was not reserved about other matters, and 
he and the old Danish lady became excellent friends to- 
gether. He said repeatedly to her : 

“Knutty, why haven’t you been to see us more often ?” 

And Knutty, stroking her chin, would reply : 

“The climate, dear one, the climate ; either too hot or 
too cold; too dry or too wet — generally too wet! Any- 
way, the atmosphere didn’t suit me; too trying.” 

And of course she was speaking of the mental atmos- 
phere of “Falun.” 

She transformed “Falun” into an abode of compara- 
tive cheerfulness, and brightened up the house in a most 
astonishing manner. The boy hastened home from his 
riding or cycling. There was something to go back for 
now, and Knutty was always in a good temper, always 
ready to be photographed at the exact moment when she 
was wanted, and always ready to s}unpathise with electric 
batteries, books on architecture, square towers, round 
towers, telephones, and of course chemical experiments. 

“Make any experiments you like,” she said. “Don’t 
be afraid of blowing me up. I have been accustomed to it 
for years. In fact, I prefer it. Anything is better than 
monotony. The unexpected is always delightful, and 
it is quite refreshing to have a few fingers blown off in a 
thrilling fashion, or even a head ! Most people lose their 
heads in a much less interesting way, and under much 
less provocation. And as for smells, Alan, I worship 
them. In fact, I feel quite exhilarated when I have the 
smell of that adorable sulphuretted-hydrogen under my 
Danish nose. As for architecture, I could listen all the 


42 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


day long to anything yon have to say on that subject. I 
am glad yon are going to be an architect; indeed you 
cannot with any self-respect be anything else, since you 
were christened after your father’s hero, Alan de Wal- 
singham. Only listen, if you don’t succeed in building a 
cathedral every bit as fine as Ely, I shall cut you off 
from my visiting-list. So there. Now you know what 
you have to expect from old Knutty.” 

She disliked the dismal drawing-room. She was much 
happier sitting in the laboratory, and even happier in the 
dark room where Alan sometimes enticed her. And occa- 
sionally he got her out for a walk, which was a great 
concession; for Knutty hated walking. She always de- 
clared it was the invention of the devil. 

In fact she won him entirely, and then by many subtle 
processes, she tried to find out what his real feelings were 
towards his father. He undoubtedly loved his father, 
but there was something troubling his mind : something 
which had to be cleared up ; and from Clifford’s allusion 
to his own fears, of the boy turning against him, Knutty 
guessed that the father too was conscious of a change 
in his son’s attitude towards him. Whatever it was, it 
must not be allowed to grow. She was nearly distracted 
between the two of them. Sometimes she thought it 
would be better for them to be separated for a little 
while, and at other times she believed it would be safer 
for them to have a complete understanding at once. One 
morning Alan’s strained manner to his father strength- 
ened her in the belief that her two icebergs must be 
brought into closer contact again before they drifted 
away into different parts of the Arctic regions, where 
they might never rejoin. By means of great craft, she at 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


43 


last managed to make Alan speak of his mother, and 
then some of the trouble came tumbling out. He re- 
gretted so bitterly that he had told his mother that he 
knew his father and she were unhappy together; he re- 
gretted so bitterly that he had said it was all her fault. 

“And to think that those were the last words I ever 
said to her,” he said with almost a sob. 

He did not say that he blamed his father for telling 
him about the proposed separation, but he kept on re- 
peating : 

“If only I had not known, if only I had not known.” 

And of course in his heart he was saying : 

“If only father had not told me, if only he had not 
told me.” 

Knutty listened and felt torn, for the boy and his 
father too. Clifford had wounded his child; there was 
no doubt about that. And only the hand which inflicts 
the wound can give the healing touch — if people love. 
Nevertheless, it was for the man, she pleaded, for the 
one who had done the injury to his son whom he loved. 

“You see, kjaere,” she said, “your father is very un- 
happy. He would give his whole life not to have told 
you. And you know he was very good to your mother — 
very gentle, and he is suffering greatly over her tragic 
death. It is a hard time for him. And when he looks 
at you he remembers that he has made things hard for 
you too; and that naturally adds to his trouble. And 
he is ill. No one can comfort him except you. His poor 
old Knutty is no good to him now. She is no use to any- 
one now — she is too old, and too stupid.” 

“Oh, Knutty, you know you are not stupid,” Alan said 
indignantly. “Why, you know an awful lot about all 


44 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


sorts of things — and an awful lot about chemistry. 
Father says so. And he doesn’t think you are useless; 
for the first thing he said was: ‘We must send for 
Knutty.’ ” 

Froken Knudsgaard closed her eyes for a moment to 
check some tears. These words were very precious to her. 
When she opened them again, there was a twinkle in 
them and no sign of tears. 

“Perhaps I am not so stupid after all,” she said. “I 
forgot I knew about chemistry! Not that I do know 
anything, dear one, but I can talk about it! However, 
it comes to the same thing. And perhaps I am not so 
useless either, not if I make you understand how he has 
suffered, and how sad he is, and how you only can help 
him. He has only you. Talk to him, kjaere. Tell him 
everything in your mind. Get rid of every thought 
which is not friendship. And now pull old Knutty up 
from her chair. That’s right. Mange Tak.* Now I am 
going to have a sleep. I’m sleepy, Alan. It is the 
atmosphere of the dark-room. Tell your father I am 
going to have a good Danish snore in the dismal draw- 
ing-room, and no one must disturb me unless it is to 
unfold some plans about the journey to Japan.” 

So Froken Knudsgaard went hastily into retreat, for 
she had heard Clifford’s voice outside, and she wanted her 
two icebergs to be alone together. 

“By St. Olaf’s sword, I am very tired,” she said to 
herself, as she lay on the sofa in the desolate drawing- 
room. “Arctic expeditions are exhausting journeys. All 
the same, I could not have forsaken my poor icebergs.” 


Mange Tak, many thanks. 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


45 


Knutty yawned and yawned, and then stared at Mari- 
anne’s portrait which hung opposite to her : 

“Never liked that woman/’ she thought. “Beautiful 
but Billingsgate. Quite the wrong aura for Clifford. 
What a mercy she has died! Cannot help saying it, 
though of course I ought to be ashamed of myself if I 
were a moral person, which, thank goodness, I’m not! 
Ak, that Marianne ! And how like her selfishness to die 
in that way, and leave my tender-hearted Clifford torn 
in pieces. Na, these English people, how stubborn and 
ungracious they are! And yet I love them, and love 
England too. If Ejnar and Gerda came and stayed long 
enough, they too would love England, and not feel so 
angry with their old Tante for being so fond of this 
wicked country. Ah, the battles I have to fight for 
England. I ought to be given the Order of St. George. 
Ja, ja, and I must remember to send those mosses to 
Ejnar to-morrow. How happy he will be over them! 
And Gerda too. I can see the botanical smile on their 
dear faces. Dear, dead-alive plants, both of them !” 

And Knutty fell asleep and dreamed marvellously of 
mosses found in icebergs, and of her nephew, Ejnar, the 
botanist, and Gerda, his wife, and of how they came over 
to England and made friends with the authorities at 
Kew Gardens. 

“There now, I told you,” Knutty said triumphantly, 
“I told you that the Kew people would not insult you 
after the first quarter of an hour. After the first quarter 
of an hour, when they had recovered from the shock of 
receiving foreigners, they would be delighted to see you, 
and would be willing to exchange specimens. I know 
them — the dear, proud, rude ones! You just have to 


46 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


learn how to unwind yards and yards of Red Tape. I own 
it takes time. I admit that, Ejnar.” 

She smiled, laughed, and woke up. Perhaps it was 
her laughter, which woke her up, and perhaps it was the 
voices of her two icebergs who were standing by the sofa. 

“Where am I — where am I?” she said, rubbing her 
eyes. “Ah, I remember, at the North Pole again ! You 
horrid chemical compounds, I told you not to wake poor 
old Knutty unless you had something to tell her about 
going to Japan.” 

“That is just what we have to tell you,” Clifford and 
Alan said together. 

Froken Knudsgaard glanced furtively at father and 
son, and saw that they were standing arm-in-arm. She 
was too wise an old bird to ask what had passed between 
them, and what they had said to each other. Besides, 
she knew that icebergs would use only a few words of 
explanation, and then drift into intimacy again. She 
saw at a glance that her Clifford looked comforted, and 
that in some way Alan had eased his father’s heart and 
his own boyish heart too. That was all that mattered. 
A tender expression came over her face. 

“Help me up, dear ones,” she said, holding out her 
hand to each. “You know Knutty’s knees have become 
very rheumatic. And Clifford, kjaere, we really must 
send those mosses off to Ejnar and Gerda without delay. 
I heard this morning that they have had a serious falling 
out over a fungus. Let us hope that they will become 
reconciled over the mosses. Ah, you must bring them 
all sorts of treasures from your journey to Japan.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


S O “FALUN” was shut up, and Clifford Thorton, 
Alan, and Knutty came np to London to spend 
tw6 or three weeks at the Langham, and get 
the tickets for the journey to Japan. When 
Knntty was satisfied that all arrangements were going 
on satisfactorily, she left her icebergs, but with a good 
deal of uneasiness in her kind old heart. She had been 
increasingly stern about the necessity for this change of 
scene and habit, for she saw that Clifford’s unhappy 
state of mind prevented him from again taking up his 
life and work. She knew, of course, that it was only 
natural that he should be unhappy in the circumstances 
and considering the tragic manner of Marianne’s death ■; 
but she could not help thinking that, in addition to the 
sadness and lingering regret from which a man of his 
sensitive character would inevitably be suffering at such 
a time, he had some other trouble at the back of his 
brain. He had told her nothing about his dream, but he 
continued to make strange references to psychic phenom- 
ena, such as dreams, telepathy in dreams, transmission of 
thoughts, subconscious activities, and subjects of that 
description, subjects which Knutty knew to be entirely 
outside his natural range of inquiry and thought. In 
puzzling over this, she said to herself “Perhaps he 
dreamed he wanted her to be dead, and when it came 
true, was horrified with himself. Well, it is all too much 


48 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


for me. Not for me these problems of occult thought. 
Certainly I am of the earth, earthy; and grateful in all 
conscience for the comfortable possession of a mundane 
spirit. May I never have any aspiration beyond. But, 
alas for my poor Clifford if he is going to spoil his free- 
dom won after sixteen years of unhappy married life.” 

But although Knutty knew a great deal about Clif- 
ford’s married troubles, she had not, up to the time of 
Marianne’s death, realised the seriousness of the havoc 
which sixteen years of uncongenial companionship with 
Marianne had wrought in his spirit. He had kept his 
secret hidden away from the world, hidden away from 
Marianne until the last, almost hidden away from him- 
self. Knutty only knew that he had married the wrong 
woman — married a coarse-fibred person who could never 
appreciate his delicate sensitiveness of brain and char- 
acter, the innate chivalry of his heart and the great pos- 
sibilities of his intellect, which needed, however, a pro- 
tecting care to bring them to easy and natural develop- 
ment. She saw, as the years went by, that Clifford’s 
labours in his own branch of work were being grievously 
hindered, and she had heard in scientific circles that he 
was not considered to be fulfilling the brilliant promise 
of early manhood. It was thought to be a pity that a 
man of his leisure and means, and of undoubted gifts, 
should not come more prominently to the fore, since 
there were so few scientific men in England who were, 
like himself, independent of paying work and able to 
devote their time to research. Something was wrong with 
him. Knutty knew that that something was Marianne. 
Sometimes, when she had questioned him, on his visits 
to her at Copenhagen, he had said, shrugging his shoul- 
ders: 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


49 


“Temperamental strife, Knutty. Temperamental 
strife, nearly everyone’s trouble.” 

That was all he told her. But when she learned that 
he had made up his mind to separate from Marianne, 
and had told Alan of his intention, she understood that 
he, so gentle and chivalrous by nature, must have been 
driven to desperation to even think of taking such a de- 
cisive step. In speaking of his part of his trouble, his 
deep regret at having burdened Alan with a knowledge 
of their unhappiness, he merely said : 

“You see, Knutty, I waited nearly fiften years, until I 
thought that he was old enough, and then I found he 
was too young.” 

“But you had some happiness, dear one?” she asked 
anxiously. 

“No, Knutty, none,” he answered. 

“But you had your work, kjaere,” she said. “That has 
been a haven, surely ?” 

“My haven was always invaded,” he said. “There was 
no peace.” 

“Ak,” she thought, “he must and shall find peace for 
his work and happiness for his heart. He was meant to 
be cared for and loved by some dear woman with a suit- 
able aura. And where is she, the wretch ? Where is she ? 
She must be waiting somewhere in space for him, if he 
could only see her and capture her at once. Ak, how 
glad I should be! Ak, how I should cry aloud: T see 
daylight !’ Bah, if we could only get rid of this absurd 
convention called time! Moments are centuries and 
centuries are moments, according to circumstance; and 
yet we go on adjusting our lives and emotions to the 
strike of the parish clock. Parish clocks indeed! I’d 


50 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


like to stop every one of them all over the world.” But 
she did not venture to give utterance to these bold 
sentiments when Clifford put her on the boat at Har- 
wich. She kept to the safe subject of his work and 
arrested ambitions, and tried to arouse his intellectual 
pride. 

When he thanked her for her tender kindness to him- 
self and the boy, she answered : 

“Alas, dear one, I have done little enough for either 
of you. I should have loved to have put everything 
right for both my beloved icebergs, but that is not pos- 
sible. The longer I live, the more clearly I see that we 
cannot put matters straight either for ourselves or for 
other people. We can only muddle through difficulties, 
and help others to do the same. So I say to you : Mud- 
dle through your worries quickly, kjaere. Go for this 
long outing, and then come back and take up your life 
again. Come back to your test-tubes, your platinum 
dishes, your carbon compounds, your asymmetric carbon 
atoms, and get to work on your stereoisomerism and all 
that kind of comforting nonsense ! Do, dear one 1 You 
are at your best now — forty-three. What is forty-three ? 
If I were forty-three, I believe I could make discoveries 
in all the branches of every science which ever existed 
and ever will exist! Come back and knock everybody 
into fits by your successful work. Talk about carbon 
compounds indeed ! I expect you to become a compound 
of Berzelius, Crookes, Liebig, Faraday, Hofmann, Gay, 
Lussac, and all the other chemistry creatures. Don't I 
rattle off their names beautifully? Oh! what a clever 
old woman I am! Of course, being a Dane I couldn't 
help being clever — or thinking I was ! But there now ! 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


51 


How I chatter, and the boat just goingl Sweep the 
past away, Clifford. Remember, some people only begin 
to wake up at forty-three, and then they have to crowd 
all sorts of splendid achievements into their remaining 
years. And don't fret about the boy. He loves you 
in his own icebergic way. And don't dare to come back 
to ‘Falun' until I give you permission.” 

She had raised her finger, and was still shaking it 
in playful warning, when the boat moved off. Clifford 
stood and watched her until he could see her no longer, 
and then took his place in the train for London. 

“My good old Dane,” he said, “my best friend in the 
world. How are we going to get on without all your 
kind ways ?” 

He was alone in the carriage, and his thoughts turned 
unhindered to the past, which Knutty had wished him 
to sweep away. He could not sweep it away. It was 
seven months now since Marianne had died. During 
that time he had not known one single day’s peace of 
mind. It was in vain that he had reasoned with himself. 
Reason had had no lasting influence on his emotions. 
If he could have spoken to someone about Marianne's 
death, if he could have talked it out with some clear- 
headed, impartial person accustomed to ponder over the 
strange phenomena of the dream-world and their true 
relation to everyday life, over the mysterious workings 
of the brain, when, under the influence of sleep, it loses 
the responsibility of normal consciousness, he might 
perhaps have shaken off some of the burden which was 
so greatly oppressing him. But in the first place, he 
was reserved by nature ; and, in the second, he shrank, as 
a scientific man, from entering that debatable land, the 


52 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


phenomena of which are not verifiable by the direct 
experimental method. Even if his mind had been tuned 
to such subjects, how could he have brought himself to 
say to anyone : 

“This was my dream and hers. Now tell me — Have 
I killed my wife ?” 

So he had to fight the battle by himself, and this 
was how it was fought. One day he would say: “I 
will not let the past crush me. I will remember only 
that I did my best for Marianne, sacrificing to her the 
most precious part of myself — my very brain-power, my 
power of thinking and working. I look back with 
mourning, and see that I have accomplished scarcely 
anything of all that I intended to do; that I have 
lost the threads of this and the threads of that, and 
also the habit of subtle concentration. Marianne has 
ruined my life and my career. But now she has gone 
and I am free. And at forty-three years of age, with 
health still left me and my working powers intact, 
surely I am not going to let the remembrance of this 
tragedy rise up between me and my freedom ?” 

But the next day, this bravado of mind would have 
spent itself, and he would remember only that Marianne 
had died, and that he had certainly had some part in 
her death. She had fallen in their final conflict of tem- 
peraments. He was left as victor. And yet no victor 
either. No, rather was Marianne victorious, as she had 
ever been. And he was the one left vanquished and 
remorseful. Then all the pity and kindness in him 
rose up to condemn him in his own judgment. He for- 
got his own grievances and remembered only hers ; add- 
ing with generous hand to her list. Where she could 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


53 


scarcely have claimed one, he gave her ten, twenty, a 
hundred. And the next day he took them back again, 
remembering only the harm done to him by her turbulent 
spirit. He shuddered as he recalled the incessant irrita- 
tions, the senseless scenes of uncontrolled temper, the 
insane jealousy with which his work seemed to inspire 
her, the scornful utterances hurled against the things 
most precious to him, the carping criticisms on the people 
he admired most in the world. 

All this had taken an immense effect on him, although 
he had always tried to ignore it. But he could not 
ignore scenes. He capitulated to them. They took the 
life and spirit out of him. And Marianne knew it. 
She knew her power and used it ruthlessly. It had 
seemed in her lifetime as though she had been irritated 
beyond bearing when she saw him intent on some task 
in his laboratory ; as though she had deliberately got up 
a scene to wreck his day’s work, and had only been 
propitiated when she saw the fabric of his brain-power in 
ruin for that morning at least. 

He went over all this as he leaned back in the carriage. 
He remembered that Knutty said he had made a success- 
ful fight with bitterness. It was true that he was not 
bitter; but he knew that he could take no praise to 
himself on that score. For he had discovered that 
bitterness ruined his abilities even more ruthlessly than 
want of serenity ; and so, out of self-preservation, he had 
tried to keep the citadel of his heart permanently for- 
tified against that enemy. Knutty also said that he had 
asked little of life; but looking back now, he knew he 
had asked for the greatest thing in the world, being 
what he most needed — peace. Peace. He had had no 


54 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


peace in Marianne’s lifetime; and now he knew it all 
depended on his own strength of will whether or not he 
could reach it at the eleventh hour. 

“If I can put from me the remembrance of the past, 
stifle morbid fears, and get to believe I was not responsi- 
ble for Marianne’s death, I shall reach peace,” he said. 

“Responsible,” he repeated. “How could I be con- 
sidered responsible, unless it could be proved that there 
is dormant power in us to prevent our evil thoughts from 
overwhelming us in our dreams ? 

“Dormant power,” he said. “Is it not rather that, 
proved or unproved, there must surely be a living force 
in us which should be able to control our attitude of 
mind whether we wake or whether we sleep ? 

“Ah, that is the trouble,” he said, as he got up and 
moved restlessly to the other end of the carriage. “The 
responsibility comes not from the dream itself, but from 
the everyday attitude of mind which caused the dream. 
If I could have felt and thought differently, I might 
have dreamt differently, and a different message would 
then have been transmitted to my poor Marianne.” 

So he tortured himself ; argued with himself ; fought 
the battle unaided ; conquered ; was conquered, and, worn 
out with the strife, longed all the more passionately for 
peace which implied the power to work and forget. 

“And what else is there in life greater than work and 
peace ?” he said. 

Something in his lonely heart whispered: “There is 
love.” 

“Yes, yes, there is love,” he answered impatiently. 
“But love has passed me by. I and love have nothing 
to do with each other.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


55 


And then suddenly the past was swept from his re- 
membrance, and he found himself thinking of Katharine 
Frensham. 

“Where have I seen her before ?” he asked himself. “I 

knew her face. I knew her voice ■” 

The train stopped. 


CHAPTER VII. 


G WENDOLEN arrived home the day after 
Katharine’s return, and the two women, al- 
though speaking a different language, were 
genuinely pleased to see each other. Katha- 
rine thought that Gwendolen was more beautiful than 
ever, and with her generous heart recognised that her 
sister-in-law was one of those women born to be wor- 
shipped by the men they marry, to the extinction of 
everyone and everything. Her complexion was perfect, 
her features were in harmony with each other, her smile 
was bewitching. Her eyes were the least attractive part 
of her; they were a little cold. Her figure was grace 
itself, and so was her bearing. She dressed faultlessly, 
but in such a quietly extravagant fashion, that Katharine 
was appalled when she thought of the enormous outlay 
which her toilette implied ; whilst in the management of 
the luxurious home, too, money seemed to be of no con- 
sideration to her. Katharine remembered that Ronald 
himself had expressed uneasiness about his increasing 
expenses ; but when she hinted at her own anxiety on his 
behalf, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said : 

“Oh, everyone lives like this, Kath. Times have 
altered since you were here. One is obliged to keep up 
a style if one wants to be in society.” 

“Well, old fellow,” she answered, “all I can say is, 
don’t make a fiasco and have to retire into the country 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


57 


suddenly one day, with the excuse that you have become 
violently in love with rural life. Everyone knows what 
that means, and it only makes one look ridiculous.” 

But even this much had ruffled him, and Katharine 
said no more. As time went on, and the first flush of 
pleasure at her return had faded, she saw that he had 
changed, and the atmosphere around him had changed 
too. None of his old personal friends belonging to their 
old happy free life visited his home. All the people who 
were in touch with him now were acquaintances only, 
of the so-called “smart type,” most of them over-dressed, 
under-dressed, mindless women and snobs of men, at 
whom Katharine and Ronald would not have looked in 
former days. Katharine thought: 

“I suppose these women are what is called ‘respect- 
able/ though they don’t look it. And they are not half 
so pleasant and interesting as that bona fide demi- 
mondaine with whom I travelled across America for four 
days. She had a heart, too, and these people seem to be 
without such an old-fashioned possession. Well, I sup- 
pose I am out of date. 

Once or twice she inquired after their old friends. 

“Where are the Grahams ? Where is Willy Tonedale ?” 
she asked. 

“Oh, the Grahams have gone away,” Ronald answered 
indifferently, “and Willy comes down to the office to see 
me. He prefers that. He says he doesn’t like the peo- 
ple he meets here, and they don’t like him. He feels 
out of it.” 

Katharine was silent again. She felt as Willy Tone- 
dale, out of it. And not only was she out of harmony 
with her surroundings, but she found as the days went 


58 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


on, that Gwendolen was becoming jealous of her, and 
that if she continued to stay, she would soon be a source 
of discord between husband and wife. For although 
Ronald was passionately attached to his wife, worship- 
ping, indeed, the very ground she trod on, he could not 
quite hide from Gwendolen or himself that he loved to 
have his sister near him. 

Gwendolen, who was not unkind by nature, tried to 
conquer her growing jealousy; but her attempts were 
not successful. She was all the more ashamed of it, 
because in her metallic fashion, she admired Katharine, 
and wished to be friends with her. But one morning 
her manner was so insufferable, that Katharine, without 
giving any warning of her intention, packed her trunks. 
When they were packed, she came down into the morn- 
ing-room and bent over Gwendolen, who was sitting at 
her bureau, writing scented invitation-cards for several 
dinner-parties. 

“Gwendolen,” she said gently, “I am going to leave 
you, dear. You must not think that I am running away 
in a temper. But I cannot stand your jealousy, nor the 
strain of appearing not to notice it. I have never been 
accustomed to strained relations with anyone. People 
have always wanted whole-heartedly to have me; and I 
have been glad whole-heartedly to be with them. I 
would much prefer to live alone in a top-garret than to 
be on difficult terms in a luxurious house with my every- 
day companions. It saps all my strength and all my 
pleasure in life : and to no purpose. If I were benefiting 
you and Ronnie, I might perhaps be virtuous enough to 
wish to stay ; but as I am only harming you both, I want 
to go. And I want you to take me : so that we may both 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


59 


feel there is no ill-will. Put on your things and come 
down to the Langham and settle me in. Kiss me, and 
let us be good friends now and always. No, no, dear, 
don’t argue about it. I have not come back from my 
wanderings to make your home unhappy.” 

Gwendolen was ashamed and touched, and even shed 
two or three metallic tears on the scented envelopes. 

"I thought I had been hiding my jealousy so beauti- 
fully, Kath,” she said. 

“My dear child,” Katharine answered, “a polar bear 
could have found it out. It requires no exquisite and 
dainty power of penetration. Jealousy is felt, tasted, 
seen at once. Did you really think you had been hiding 
it?” 

Gwendolen nodded, and Katharine laughed ever so 
gently. 

“Well, dear, at least you tried,” she said. “Come now, 
put on your prettiest hat, and let us go at once.” 

So they went without any further discussion, Katha- 
rine’s mind being completely made up on the subject. 
And when Ronald came home that evening, he found, 
to his astonishment, that his sister had fled. 

“Had you any words?” he asked anxiously. 

“No, no,” Gwendolen answered. “I wish we had had. 
I should not be feeling such a wretch then. Kath said 
she could not stand my jealousy, and that she had not 
come home from her wanderings to make our home 
unhappy. She was lovely about it, and I don’t wonder 
you love and admire her. I think she is a grand creature 
built on a grand scale, Ronnie, and I am a horrid mean- 
spirited thing, and I hate and despise myself ” 

“No, no, darling, not that,” he said, as he comforted 


60 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


and kissed her. “But it is sad. I am sorry. My good 
old Kath who gave you so uncomplainingly to me ! To 
think she has come home after three years to find she 
cannot stay a few days happily with us.” 

He paced up and down the drawing-room, his heart 
torn with sadness and concern. 

The clock struck six. 

“Ronald,” Gwendolen said, “it is only six — if you are 
not too tired, let us go to her and fetch her back.” 

He brightened up at once. 

“I would go miles to see her, Gwen,” he said eagerly — 
“miles.” 

“And so would I,” she said. “You can’t imagine how 
much I wish to see her again.” 

They had never been so near together and so much 
in sympathy as when they started off to find Katharine. 
Ronald did not attempt to reproach Gwendolen, and 
indeed there was no need. As far as her limited nature 
would permit, she was overcome with remorse, which 
gave her an added beauty in her worshipper’s eyes. It 
was nearly seven o’clock when they knocked at Katha- 
rine’s door. Katharine did not hear. She had drawn 
her chair up to the fire and was busy with her thoughts. 
Loneliness had taken possession of her heart; and al- 
though she had known that sooner or later this cold 
visitor would invade her with his chill presence, his 
coming was even worse than she had imagined it would 
be. 

“Why did I return ?” she said. “If there was nothing 
and no one to return for, why should I have returned? 
Home sickness — ah, yes — and love of the old country. 
But even then, if one has no ties and is not wanted, what 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


61 


is it all worth? One country is as good as another if 
there is no love-niche anywhere. And there can be no 
loneliness greater than that found in old conditions 
changed to new.” 

She looked lonely, like some strong tree left standing 
alone on the mountain side, to face the tempests alone. 
She was tall, and, as Gwendolen had said, made on a 
grand scale. As there was nothing petty in her attractive 
appearance, so also there was nothing petty in her mind. 
Without being learned or clever, she had been born with 
a certain temperamental genius which could not be 
classified, but only felt and seen. It was this which drew 
people to her; and because she knew that they were 
always ready to like her, her manner had that simple 
ease seen often in unselfconscious little children. Bit- 
terness and harsh judgments were foreign to her nature ; 
and so now, although she felt desolate, she was free from 
bitter thoughts. She remembered with gratitude all the 
years of happy comradeship with Ronnie: thirty-six 
years: his whole lifetime and nearly hers; for she was 
his senior by one year only, and their mother had always 
said that the two children had begun their friendship at 
once. 

“No person on earth has the right to grumble,” 
Katharine said, “if he or she has been lucky enough to 
have thirty-six years of close companionship with some 
beloved one. And it was a splendid time ; something to 
give thanks for, all the rest of one's life.” 

“And I had a beautiful home-coming, alone with him, 
and under the genial old conditions,” she said. “I 
could not have expected that happiness to continue. 


62 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


And perhaps it was as well that it came to an end 
quickly, before I found it too hard to go ” 

Then the knock came outside, but Katharine heard 
nothing. 

“In any case I had to face a new kind of life/’ she 
said. 

The knock came again; louder this time. Katharine 
heard it. She went to the door and opened it. Gwen- 
dolen and Ronald stood outside. 

“Oh, Kath,” Gwendolen cried, putting out her arms. 

“She longed to come,” Ronald said. 

“Come in at once,” Katharine said, holding out a 
hand to each of them, and drawing them into the room. 
There were tears in her eyes, and there was a smile of 
welcome on her face. The chill in her heart had turned 
to warmth. Perhaps it was only then that she knew 
what she had been through; for she suddenly collapsed 
into the arm-chair and cried. They watched her silently. 
They felt that they could do and say nothing. So they 
waited. But when she looked up and smiled at them, 
Gwendolen knelt down by her side, and Ronald bent over 
her and pinched her ear as in the old days when he 
wanted to show especial sympathy and attention. 

“I can’t help crying a little,” she cried, “because I am 
so happy.” 

“Happy ?” they said inquiringly. 

“Yes, happy,” she repeated, because you cared to 
come. You see, that is what matters most.” 

“Come back, Kath, dear,” Gwendolen pleaded. “I 
will be so different. You have taught me such a lesson. 
You have not any idea how ashamed I feel of myself.” 

“No, I cannot come back,” Katharine said, shaking 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


63 


her head. “Some other time perhaps. But not now. 
No, Ronald, old fellow, not now. One has to go forward, 
you know — and alone.” 

“But you will not put us out of your life, Kath dear,” 
Ronald said sadly. 

She had risen from the arm-chair and now put her 
arm through each of theirs and drew them to her. 

“You will not get rid of me so easily as all that,” she 
answered with some of her old brightness. “I can skip 
out of your home, but not out of your lives. No, I am 
yours always, and always ready for you. And now I 
think we ought to have dinner. You know, my dears, 
there is no denying that great emotions produce great 
hunger ! I am starving.” 

So they dined together and had a happy evening ; and 
when they were saying good-night, Gwendolen whis- 
pered : 

“When you feel you can come to us again, Kath, you 
will see how different I shall be.” 

Ronald stayed behind a moment to say : 

“Kath, it is dreadful to leave you here alone — I feel 
it dreadfully — won't you come even now ? Do, dear old 
Kath.” 

But Katharine shook her head and sent him on his 
way, promising, however, to come down to the organ- 
factory in a day or two. After they had gone, she 
lingered for a few moments in the hall, watching some 
of the people who were standing together talking and 
laughing. Every one seemed to have some belongings. 
There was that stern-looking military man whose harsh 
features relaxed as his two pretty daughters stepped out 
of the lift and touched him on the arm. 


64 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“We are ready, father,” they said, and the three went 
off arm-in-arm. 

Then there was that handsome mother with her fine 
young son, each proud of and fond of the other; and 
that happy young couple yonder, the centre of a group 
of friends; and that crippled man leaning on the arm 
of his wife, whose face was eloquent with tender pro- 
tectiveness and love. 

Katharine felt desolate again. She went slowly into 
the reading-room. 

“I will read the papers,” she thought, “and forget 
about personal matters.” 

There was no one in the reading-room; at least she 
thought there was no one, until she discovered a young 
boy who had hidden himself behind a paper. He was 
sitting near the fire, and she drew up her chair to the 
fire too, and began to read. She had previously greeted 
him; for Katharine did not observe the rigid English 
rule of ignoring the presence of a stranger. So she had 
said: “Good evening,” as though he were a grown-up 
friend and not a young stranger of perhaps fifteen years. 

The boy coloured a little and said: “Good evening,” 
and retired quickly into the Graphic again. At last he 
put down the Graphic and Katharine said : 

“May I have the Graphic if you have done with it ?” 

He rose at once, brought it to her and glanced at her 
shyly. Something in his wistful face prompted her to 
speak to him. 

“Is it a good number ?” she said, smiling at him in her 
friendly fashion. 

“Yes,” he said. 

And he added with a jerk: 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


65 


“There is a picture of my school and our football 
team — here it is — it is so awfully good of the fellows.” 

“And are you here too ?” Katharine asked, looking at 
his face and then trying to find him in the picture. 

“No,” he said, “Pm not there. Eve not been to school 
this term.” 

“Been ill ?” said Katharine, “perhaps measles, mumps, 
smashed-in-head, broken knee, or nose — what other ail- 
ments do boys have? I used to be so well-up in them. 
My brother was always being brought home in frag- 
ments.” 

He smiled a little and said : 

“No, Eve not been ill, but ” 

He paused a moment, and having glanced at her once 
more, seemed to gain confidence. He was evidently very 
shy; but he desired to explain his absence from that 
football team. 

“You see,” he said, “mother died.” 

Katharine made no answer, but nodded sympatheti- 
cally, and for a moment there was silence between these 
two new acquaintances. The boy himself broke it. 

“Father and I are going to travel for a few months,” 
he said. “But next year I shall be in the team again.” 

“And where are you going?” she asked. 

“We are going to Japan,” he said half-heartedly. It 
was obvious that his heart was not in the travelling- 
scheme. 

“Ah, that is where I have just come from,” Katharine 
said. “You are a lucky young man. And you speak of 
it as if it were a horrible holiday task. You ungrateful 
boy !” 

And she warmed him with glowing accounts of the 


66 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


journey and all the queer things and people he would 
see, and succeeded in making him so interested that he 
ended by saying : 

“By Jove, I think I shall like to go after all.” 

“Of course you will,” she said. “Why, you will enjoy 
every minute.” 

A shadow passed over his young face; and she re- 
membered that he had lost his mother, and that very 
likely he was feeling desolate in his own boyish way. 
He looked desolate too. He reminded her of someone 
she had met lately — who was it? Oh, well, she did not 
remember; but there was an air of distress about him 
pathetically combined with boyish eagerness, which ap- 
pealed to her sympathies. 

“And you will come back feeling so spry,” she added, 
“and fit for any amount of football. Besides, it is a 
good thing to go and see if Japan would make a suitable 
ally, isn’t it? Then you can send in a report to the 
Government, you know.” 

His face brightened up, and he drew his chair a little 
nearer to her ; for he felt that she was distinctly a sensi- 
ble sort of person, not unlike Knutty in intelligence. 

Katharine gave out to him in her own unsparing way, 
and when she saw that the boy was becoming more at 
his ease and more inclined to talk, she went on laughing 
and chatting with him, until her own loneliness tugged 
less at her own heart. 

Suddenly the door of the reading-room opened, and a 
man came in. Katharine and her young friend both 
looked round. 

“It’s father,” the boy said awkwardly, not knowing 
what to do next. 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


67 


“Professor Thornton,” Katharine said, with a start of 
pleasure and surprise. 

“Miss Frensham,” he said, with an eager smile on his 
grave face. 

And he sank into the arm-chair as though he had come 
into a haven. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


K ATHARINE woke up the morning after her 
arrival at the Langham feeling much less 
miserable than she had expected. The visit 
from Gwendolen and Ronald had cheered her, 
and the evening’s companionship with that lonely father 
and son had taken away the sting of her own loneliness. 
She sang as she rolled up her beautiful soft hair. And 
when the sun came streaming into the room, she felt so 
full of brightness and hope, that she paused in her 
process of dressing, and danced the Norfolk step-dance 
in her smart silk petticoat. Then she stopped suddenly, 
arrested by an invisible touch. 

“Ah,” she said, “how often Ronald and I have danced 
that at the beanfeasts. And now, never again, never 
again, old fellow. All the old fun is over. You belong 
heart and soul to that over-dressed jealous little idiot.” 

“Shame on you, Katharine!” she said, shaking her 
fist at herself in the looking-glass. “You deserve to put 
on an unbecoming dress. You shall put on that blue 
failure. You know blue does not suit you — not that 
tone of blue.” 

Katharine took the dress in question from the ward- 
robe and began putting it on. 

“No,” she said with a smile, “I have changed my mind, 
Katharine. You shall not be punished. You shall wear 
your most becoming one — the dove-coloured one. Pun- 
ishment, indeed! You don’t need punishment. You 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


69 


need consolation. And what could be more consoling on 
earth than a becoming dress, unless it were a becoming 
hat? You shall have both.” 

She nodded and smiled to herself in the glass, and 
was still smiling when she went down in the lift, and 
found Clifford Thornton and Alan in the hall. By 
silent agreement they breakfasted together, and then 
made their way into the reading-room, and drew up to 
the fire. Katharine was so genial and companionable 
that it was impossible even for Knutty’s two icebergs 
not to thaw in her presence. Free of spirit always, and 
fresh from her recent travels, she was feeling as though 
she had met two strange people unexpectedly in some 
desolate corner of the earth, and had therefore the right 
to greet them and treat them as fellow-travellers. She 
knew that they would pass on, of course; but meantime 
here they were ; they had broken in upon her loneliness, 
and she had the right to enjoy what the hour brought. 
It was only a chance that the desolate corner happened 
to be the Langham. It might have been Mount Ararat, 
or some spot in Siberia or Central China. 

As for the icebergs themselves, they were feeling 
vaguely that it was delightful to be with her. Alan’s 
shyness yielded to her influence, and the man’s grave 
reserve underwent a slight modification. He seemed 
to become younger too. Once or twice he even laughed 
at something Katharine said. It was such a fresh, 
boyish laughter, and had such a ring in it, that anyone 
would have believed he was meant for happiness. That 
was what Katharine thought when she heard it; and 
when she glanced at his face, and saw that for the 
moment his strained expression had given place to easier 


70 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


adjustment, something tugged at her heart. In a 
curious, impersonal sort of way, he, too, appeared to 
think that this chance meeting was to be made into 
pleasure for them all; for he said quite simply, as one 
traveller meeting another might say: 

“What shall we do this morning ?” 

“I will do anything you both like,” Katharine said. 
“I have no plans in the world, except to go to Denmark 
in a few weeks.” 

“Denmark !” they both said, interested at once. 

“Yes,” she answered, “I have a mysterious and sacred 
parcel entrusted to me by two botanists in Arizona ; and 
I vowed that I would go myself to Denmark and put it 
into the hands of two botanists in Copenhagen — Ebbesen 
was the name.” 

“Ah, that is curious,” Clifford said. “They are the 
nephew and niece of my old governess, whom I only 
saw off to Denmark last night. Ejnar and Gerda 
Ebbesen. And they are great on ‘salix;’ and have a 
good many quarrels over that and other debatable sub- 
jects too. You will find them to be delightful people, 
and highly intellectual, as so many Danes are. But your 
parcel will probably give rise to many a battle royal.” 

“Apparently all botanists quarrel,” said Katharine. 
“I know my friends were in a perpetual state of warfare. 
They had a fearful dispute when I was there, about a 
cactus. Such a hideous thing to quarrel over, too. And 
when I said that, they instantly became reconciled and 
attacked me !” 

Then Clifford, with a smile in his heart at the mere 
thought of Knutty and her belongings, began to speak 
of his dear old Dane. And he added : 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


71 


“You will not need an introduction to her good graces 
if you are bringing offerings to her nephew and niece, 
whom she adores. Still, she would like to know that 
you have seen her troublesome Englishman. She is the 
kindest friend I have ever had in my life. She came 
to take charge of me when I was about seven years of 
age. A lonely little beggar I was, too ; in a great house 
in Surrey, with no one to care about my comings and 
goings. My mother was dead, and my father, a mining 
engineer, was always travelling about to all parts of the 
globe. When Knutty arrived on the scenes, I felt that 
Heaven had opened and let out an angel.” 

"She doesn't look much like an angel now !” said Alan 
quaintly. "She weighs about seventeen stone.” 

"I would not have her otherwise, would you ?” said his 
father, smiling. 

"No, no,” said Alan staunchly, "she is ripping, just as 
she is.” 

"We wanted her to come with us on our travels,” 
Clifford continued. 

"She would have been splendid, father, wouldn't she ?” 
Alan said. "Nothing would have upset Knutty. Why, 
I believe if we had been drowning together, she would 
have said: ‘By St. Olaf, what a delightful ocean this 
is!'” 

They all laughed. Knutty at that moment tossing on 
the sea, would have been glad to hear her beloved icebergs 
laugh, and glad to know that she was the cause. She 
would have rejoiced also to know that someone, and that 
someone a sympathetic woman, was being kind to them. 
Perhaps she would have said : 

"I see daylight !” 


72 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


Then Clifford spoke of Denmark, and Norway, and 
Sweden, the wonderful North which Knutty had taught 
him to love and understand. 

“I had the love of it in my veins,” he said, “for my 
father had a passion for Northern countries and people, 
and that was why he chose a Northern governess for me ; 
although of course she knew English perfectly. But she 
fostered my love of the North, and brought me up on 
the Sagas. And it was she who first took me up to the 
extreme North of Norway. That is where you should 
go : where you see the mountains as in a vision ; and 
the glaciers reflected in the fiords, and the exquisite 
colours of the sky chastened and tempered by the magic 
mist.” 

Katharine said that she had always intended to go 
there, but that other places had taken precedence; and 
that when her brother married three years ago, she had 
been impelled to take a long journey, in order to get 
accustomed to a new kind of life, a crippled kind of life 
without him.” 

“And have you become accustomed to it?” Clifford 
Thornton asked. 

“No,” she answered. “Not yet.” 

“Then the long journey did not help ?” he said. 

“Oh, yes, it helped,” Katharine answered. “Merci- 
fully one passes on.” 

“Yes,” he said, and he seemed lost in thought. 

Katharine broke through the silence : 

“Well,” she said, rising from her chair, “if we are 
going out, we should not delay much longer. “Where 
shall we go ?” she said turning to Alan. 

Alan chose the Hippodrome, and the three started off 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


73 


together in that direction. Knutty would have been 
somewhat surprised to see her two icebergs. They did 
not talk much, it is true, for Katharine did all the 
talking; but they laughed now and then, and made an 
occasional remark which was not at all Arctic. They 
had a splendid day together : a mixture of Hippodromes, 
ices, lunches, animated pictures, Natural History Mu- 
seums, and camera shops ; and in the evening they dined 
together, and chatted, like old cronies, over the day’s 
doings. 

They knew that they owed the day’s pleasure to 
Katharine’s companionship; and when Alan said good- 
night, he blushed and added with a jerk : 

“Thank you.” 

And Clifford said : 

“Yes, indeed, thank you for to-day — tak for idag, as 
the Danes say.” 

“Ah, I must learn that if I am going to Denmark,” 
Katharine said, and she repeated it several times until 
Alan pronounced her to be perfect. 

“Tak for idag, tak for idag!” she said triumphantly. 
“It is I who have to thank you for to-day.” 

She thought of them as she went to sleep. They 
seemed to her two pathetic figures, hapless wanderers, 
not fit to be alone in the world by themselves. She 
wished the old Dane had not left them. She dreamed 
of them; she saw in her dreams the boy’s young face 
and the man’s grave face. She heard the man’s voice 
telling her that he had met and known her before, and 
she answered: 

“Yes, it is true. We have met somewhere, you and I. 


74 KATHARINE FRENSHAM 

Some message has passed between ns somewhere — some- 
how 55 

When she woke up, she remembered her dreams and 
lay thinking a long time. 

“He haunts me,” she thought. “He is on my mind 
and in my heart, day and night. I suppose I ought to 
try and get rid of him. I suppose it would be the right 
sort of British matronly thing to do, considering the 
circumstances. And yet why should it be the right 
thing? It does not harm him that I think of him and 
am strongly attracted to him. Why should I stamp 
down my emotions and impulses ? No. I shall think of 
him as much as I like, and dream of him as much as 
I can. I know he is a man with a broken spirit — out of 
reach, out of region — but ” 

“Ah, well,” she said, “I must shake myself and ‘go 
forth. 5 55 

She went forth that day looking the picture of health 
and attractive grace. She wore the dove-coloured dress, 
a most becoming hat, and a cloak which added to her 
natural charm of bearing. But it was her whole per- 
sonality more than her looks which stamped her as a 
special brand of beautiful womanhood ; whilst her ador- 
able manner, the natural outcome of a big heart and 
generous spirit, gave her a radiance which was felt and 
seen by everyone. Wherever she went, people even of 
the dullest types, had a distinct feeling of being pleased 
and stirred. Her arrival at the organ factory, near 
Cambridge Heath, was the signal for all the employes 
on the premises to be more or less agreeably excited, 
according to their varying powers of receptivity. The 
porter, who was known as the “dormouse/ 5 from his 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


75 


sleepy disposition, became electrified into activity when 
he saw Katharine. He ran and spread the news. 

“Miss Katharine has come,” he said first to one work- 
man and then another. 

She soon passed in and ont amongst them all. The 
sulky but clever artiste, who voiced the reeds, the sym- 
pathetic craftsman who was doing a delicate piece of 
carving for part of an elaborate organ-case, the me- 
chanics, the packers, the clerks, the manager, all had 
their eager word of welcome ready for her. 

“It’s good to see you, Miss Katharine,” they said. 
“Organ-building hasn’t been organ-building without 
you.” 

Ronald was with a client at the time, but he too 
became excited when he heard that Katharine had come ; 
and the client was ingeniously got rid of as soon as 
possible. 

“How many times you have come and upset us all,” 
he said, when they were alone together in his sanctum. 
“No one will do any more useful work to-day, and I am 
sure I don’t wonder. And how jolly to see you here as in 
the old days ! And how splendid you look too ! Why, 
Kath, I do believe you have a flirtation on ! You have 
that well-known air of buoyancy which always has meant 
a new flirtation. I should recognise it anywhere.” 

“No, no,” she laughed, “I have no flirtation on. I 
should tell you at once, if only from sheer force of 
habit.” 

“Well,” he said, “I have been torn the whole time 
thinking what a brute I was to leave you in that way 
and let you stay at the Langham. I can’t get over it, 
Kath. Gwendolen is so ashamed, and so am I.” 


76 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Don’t fret about it” she said gently. “The bitterness 
has passed, if, indeed, it ever existed, Ronnie. Gwen- 
dolen never meant to be unkind. Most people would 
have stayed on and pretended not to feel the strain ; but 
I couldn’t have done that. I would rather never see 
you again than live on strained terms with you now 
that you are married. That would be a pitiful ending 
to our long friendship, wouldn’t it? No, no, cheer up. 
It will all work out beautifully; and I shall come and 
see you more often than you wish. I promise you 
that.” 

“But it is dreadful for you to be alone,” he said. 

“I have not been alone,” she answerd, and she told 
him about her strange meeting with Clifford Thornton 
and his boy. 

Ronald pretended to believe that she knew they were 
there all the time, and that she had left his home delib- 
erately. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered gaily. “Life is 
only a series of chances, and this is one of them.” 

“And here have I been racking my brains to think how 
I might comfort you, Kath,” said Ronald. 

“Dear old fellow,” she replied. “Lonely people have 
to work out their own redemption.” 

“Are you very lonely?” he asked regretfully. It al- 
ways pinched his heart to think that he had abandoned 
her. 

“No, no,” she answered, giving him a sudden hug, 
“scarcely at all, and then only for a few passing moments. 
Nothing that matters. And now tell me about business. 
For if you want the benefit of my advice about anything, 
now is your chance. I feel that my brains are in 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


77 


splendid condition this morning, and that I can settle 
the most momentous questions in five minutes. I al- 
ways was quick, wasn't I ?" 

“There are one or two matters you can help me with, 
if you will really give your attention," he said. 

“Well, then, I must remove this hat," Katharine said, 
taking pins recklessly out of her hair. “No person could 
be business-like in such a hat, could they? Ah, I feel 
different now, absolutely serious and commercial. And 
here go my gloves and rings. Now, Ronnie, I am all 
brains and attention." 

“And you won't flirt if I ask Barlow in?" Ronald 
said. “We shall want him too." 

“I will be sphinx-like," she answered, with a twinkle 
in her eye. 

Ronald laughed and sent for his manager, and the 
three together settled some important difficulties, over 
which Katharine showed herself so quick-witted and 
sensible, that Mr. Barlow was lost in admiration and re- 
marked it was a pity she was not in the business. 

“I have always maintained, Miss Katharine, that you 
ought to take an active part in the business," he said. 
“You have a good and a quick judgment." 

“Ah, Mr. Barlow," Katharine answered eagerly, “you 
have touched the right chord. I want to take an active 
part from now onwards, and Ronald says I could be of 
use." 

“Yes, but the trouble is that you'd soon get tired of 
routine-work," Ronald said. “You were not made for a 
dull life." 

“Why could I not be a traveller for the firm?" sug- 
gested Katharine. “I am sure I could manage eccle- 


78 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


siastics beautifully; and that wouldn’t be dull really, 
though it sounds dull ! I have every confidence that I 
could make all creeds employ our firm and our firm only. 
I feel myself quite capable of tackling Archbishops or 
Plymouth Brethren; Unitarian ministers, or Anabap- 
tists. All sects of all shades except Christian Scientists. 
I draw the line at Christian Scientists. No one could 
tackle them, no one on earth or in Heaven or — any- 
where !” 

The manager laughed. 

“I believe you can tackle anyone, Miss Katharine, 
even Christian Scientists,” he said, “and I am sure we 
can make use of your quick judgment.” 

When he had gone, she said to Ronald : 

“Ronnie, I really am more stable than you think, and 
I believe I could even do routine-work now. I must 
have something to do. And you admit I have a quick 
brain. It goes like a flash, doesn’t it? Not like Willy 
Tonedale’s, for instance.” 

And at that moment Willy Tonedale was announced. 
He was a handsome fellow, to whom the gods had given 
a beautiful face, a splendid form, a dear, kind heart, and 
certainly the very slowest of brains. Everyone loved 
him, and Katharine herself was one of his best friends. 
He was too lazy to have worked seriously at a profession ; 
but he had had a vague training as an artist, and had 
dawdled through the Royal Academy Schools. It was 
his custom to propose to Katharine every time he met 
her, and he at once said : 

“Ah, Katharine, there you are, home at last ! Do be 
mine, my dear. Do. There’s a brick.” 

“We were just talking of you,” she said. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


79 


“Talking of my slow brain, as usual, I suppose,” he 
said, slipping into Ronald's chair, his handsome face 
aglow with the pleasure of seeing her. 

“It was just mentioned,” Katharine said laughing; 
and Ronald said : 

“Kath wants to come into the business; and she was 
remarking that she had a quick brain, not like ■” 

“Not like mine, of course,” put in Willy. “I know. 
But what on earth does she want to come into the busi- 
ness for? I never heard of anything so absurd. Why 
don't you tell her to marry me instead, Ronald ?” 

“You are not the right man, Willy,” Katharine said 
brightly. “You are an awful dear; but you never were 
the right fellow, and never will be.” 

“Well, don't settle down to work,” he said. “Work ! 
Who wants to work at anything regularly ? Never heard 
such an absurd idea. Good Heavens ! If it's money you 
want, take all I've got — every blessed shilling — and re- 
main yourself — Katharine the splendid. Business 
routine for you ! It's ridiculous to think of. Why, the 
world wouldn't go on properly unless you were a leisured 
person. Some nice people have got to be leisured. 
That's why I take things easily. Too many busy people 
make life a nuisance. Even I've sense enough to know 
that.” 

“I am quite determined to take up business, Willy,” 
said Katharine, “and the world will have to do without 
me. Ronald says I could be of use. And Mr. Barlow 
says so too. Now just imagine for one moment how 
beautifully I might manage bishops, archbishops, 
curates, even Popes. Can't you picture to yourself the 


80 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


Pope ordering a new organ with all the newest improve- 
ments of which only our firm is capable !” 

And she went through an imaginary interview with 
the Pope, which called forth peals of laughter from her 
little audience of two. Seriousness had scarcely been 
re-established, when the card of a real clergyman was 
brought in, and Ronald said laughingly : 

“Here, Kath, here’s your chance, the Dean of St. 
Ambrose’s.” 

“No, no,” she answered. “I can’t begin with anyone 
inferior to a Pope or an Archbishop. Come along, 
Willy, I suppose you are going to your home to lunch. 
You know I am spending the afternoon there. Make 
haste, Willy ! Ronald is longing for us to be off.” 

“My dear Kath,” Willy Tonedale said quaintly, “it 
isn’t I that am putting all those mysterious pins into 
my head. Can’t understand how they don’t hurt the 
head, going right through like that. They would hurt 
my head. But then it’s true ” 

“Yes, it’s true,” said Katharine. “You needn’t finish 
your remark. I know! Good-bye, Ronnie. Love to 
Gwendolen, and I’m coming to dinner to-morrow. If 
it had only been an Archbishop, I would have begun at 
once !” 

The Dean passed into Ronald’s sanctum as Willy 
Tonedale and Katharine passed out. The dignitary of 
the church glanced at her, and a fleeting expression of 
pleased surprise lit up his clerical countenance. He had 
come about some experiment which he wished tried on 
the organ of St. Ambrose’s ; but he found himself unable 
to concentrate his attention on business until he had 
asked who that delightf ul-looking lady might be. Ronald 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


81 


smiled invisibly as he replied that it was his sister — the 
senior partner of the firm. 

“Dear me, dear me !” replied the Dean as he stroked 
his chin. His eyes wandered restlessly towards the door. 
Wicked old Dean. He was thinking : 

“Surely I have heard that it is always safer to ask for 
the senior partner.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


^ "W" TELL, Willy,” said Katharine, as he and 
* \/% / she made their way towards the Tone- 

▼ T dales’ house in South Kensington, 
“what have you been doing whilst I 
have been away? Have you finished the famous his- 
torical picture of the unhistoric meeting between Queen 
Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots? I should like 
to think that you have finished it; for then I shouldn’t 
have to sit for it any more ! Let me see, how many years 
have you been painting at that immortal masterpiece? 
Is it ten or fifteen years ?” 

“Don’t make fun of me,” Willy said. “You know 
perfectly well that I am one of those fellows who were 
never intended for work, although if I had had you to 
work for, Kath, I might have overcome my natural in- 
clination. Well, anyway, the masterpiece isn’t done yet. 
It has been waiting for your return. You must still sit 
for it. I have missed you fearfully. Everybody has 
missed you. Even that duffer Ronald, infatuated as he 
is with that idiot Gwendolen, even he has had the sense 
to miss you. By Jove, though, he is altered! Not the 
same fellow at all. I never go to his home. Don’t care 
to meet those pretentious asses of people whom Gwen- 
dolen thinks such fine style. I don’t see how you are 
going to get on with them, Kath. They’ll hate you, and 
you’ll hate them. It’s their pretentiousness I can’t swal- 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


83 


low. It makes me positively sick. No, when I want to 
see Ronnie nowadays, I go down to the organ-factory. 
That is good enough for me. No one is artificial there.” 

“Yes, Ronnie has altered,” Katharine said. “But, 
still, if he is happy, Willy, that is the main thing. And 
I think he is happy; although I am sure that he knows 
he is spending too much money. The truth is, Gwen- 
dolen has always been accustomed to these weird people, 
and likes to entertain them. Ronnie has nothing in 
common with them, but he worships Gwendolen, and 
loves to please her, and so he has persuaded himself that 
it is the right thing to keep in and up with them. 
Perhaps it is, from one point of view. It all depends on 
what one wants in life. I assure you I was glad enough 
to escape two or three days ago, and take refuge in the 
Langham until I could find a flat for myself. Gwen- 
dolen was jealous of me, too. I felt that at once.” 

“At the Langham, nonsense !” said Willy. “Come and 
live with us. That's the proper place for you until you 
have decided what to do. Come, Kath, do !” 

Mrs. Tonedale and Margaret, Willy's mother and 
sister, also begged Katharine to come and make their 
home her own ; but she could not be persuaded to leave 
the hotel, and said in excuse that she was still feeling a 
wanderer to whom a home was not yet necessary. They 
did not coerce her, knowing her love of freedom, and 
knowing also that she understood there was always a 
warm welcome awaiting her. For they loved her dearly, 
in spite of the fact that she did not respond to Willy's 
adoration. 

Margaret Tonedale had been Katnarine's earliest 
school-friend in the years that had gone. They had both 


84 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


been together at one of those pre-historic private schools, 
where the poor female victims used to get very little 
learning and much less food. 

"It didn’t matter so much about the learning,” Kath 
said to Margaret that afternoon, when they were speak- 
ing about old times. "I always felt vaguely one could 
made that up somehow or other, but one could not make 
up the arrears of food ; and, you know, I have remained 
hungry ever since.” 

"If you married me, Katharine, I would feed yon 
splendidly,” Willy said. “You’d soon forget that you 
had been starved at school. My dear girl, you should 
have a baron of beef every day !” 

“Willy is still incorrigible in the way he proposes,” 
Mrs. Tonedale said, laughing. “You must go on for- 
giving him, Katharine.” 

“Willy is a dear, and I don’t mind when, or how he 
proposes to me; whether with a poem, or a baron of 
beef, or a picture of the meeting between Elizabeth and 
Mary, Queen of Scots,” said Katharine smiling. “I 
think we still understand each other, and he knows that 
he will always get the same answer. Don’t you, Willy?” 

“Yes, my dear,” answered Willy. “Same question, 
same answer. That is all I expect now.” 

“But, supposing some day I said ‘yes,’ instead of ‘no.’ 
What would you do then ?” suggested Katharine, teasing 
him. 

“By Jove, Kath, I should go out of my senses,” he 
said eagerly. 

“My dear fellow, you must keep what brains you’ve 
got,” she replied. “You know I’ve always said you had 
some, though they do work slowly.” 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


85 


“The machine’s there, my dear,” he said, “but it cer- 
tainly doesn’t work quickly. I’m quite willing to own 
that it doesn’t work quickly. It never could, not even 
for love of you. Quite sure you couldn’t stand a slow 
machine ?” 

“Quite sure,” she answered. “It would send me fran- 
tic, Willy.” 

“Awfully hard on a man to have a slow machine when 
only a quick one will do the trick,” he said. “Where’s 
the justice of it, I should like to know ? Tell me that.” 

“Oh, I don’t pretend to know about justice,” she said. 
“But I think there are plenty of other women who would 
not go frantic over the slow machine.” 

“Exactly,” he said, pulling his moustache. “But I 
want the woman who would go frantic.” 

“Do be sensible, Will,” she said. “Our temperaments 
are hopelessly different.” 

“Oh, hang temperament,” he said recklessly. “I hate 
the word.” 

“Everything turns on it,” she answered. “I see that 
more and more.” 

“Oh, don’t you begin to talk about temperaments,” 
he said. “I can’t stand it from you, Kath. We hear 
of nothing else now, since cousin Julia came to live in 
London. But, there she is, confound her! And now 
she will begin on her eternal subject : a dead friend who 
was done to death by her husband’s temperamental 
cruelty. And mother and Margaret will listen in rapt 
delight. And if anyone fresh is here, she tells the 
whole story from beginning to end. All I can say is, 
that if the woman was anything like cousin Julia, the 
husband must have had an awful time of it, and, if he is 


86 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


a sensible chap, must now be revelling in his freedom.” 
Katharine looked in the direction of the newcomer, 
and saw a well-dressed woman with a hard face. She 
was received by Margaret Tonedale, and joined the little 
group of friends who had come in whilst Katharine and 
Willy had been talking together at the other end of the 
big drawing-room. 

ff What was the name of the dead friend?” Katharine 
asked indifferently. She wondered afterwards why she 
had asked. It was nothing to her. At least she believed 
at the moment that it was nothing to her. 

“The name was Thornton — Marianne Thornton,” 
Willy said. “I ought to know, considering Fve heard 
it about a million times. Even my brain would retain 
it after that.” 

Katharine rose from the sofa. 

“Let us join the others, Willy,” she said ; and she took 
a chair not far off from Mrs. Stanhope. Willy followed 
her, reluctantly. 

“Never thought you’d want to listen to that shrew 
of a woman,” he said. “Besides, what good does she do 
to her dead friend ? The whole thing is past and gone. 
And, as for temperaments, I tell you •” 

“Hush, hush !” said Katharine, with a slight flush on 
her face, “I want to hear what she says.” 

“Oh, I am never tired of talking about it,” Mrs. 
Stanhope was saying. “You see, she was my great 
friend, my dearest friend on earth. And to lose her in 
such sad circumstances, has made me feel tenfold more 
bereaved than I should have felt if she had just passed 
away from ordinary causes and chances of everyday life. 
As for her husband, he deserves all the unhappiness 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


87 


which remorse can measure out to him. He wrecked 
and ruined my poor friend’s life. She was high-spirited 
and full of noble emotions. She had a fine natural dis- 
position which he never even tried to understand. He 
never spared a thought to her. His thoughts were for 
himself, his work, and his son. I will do him the justice 
to say that he loved his boy. But he never gave a 
thought to his wife. She had sacrificed everything to 
his temperament; she sacrificed herself, her friends, her 
social obligations, her personal inclinations, her very 
love for her boy. No woman could have given more. 
She was alone in the world. Her husband had put her 
out into the biting cold of loneliness.” 

She paused for a moment, and Willy Tonedale drawled 
out: 

“But you did say once, cousin Julia, that she had a 
most fearful temper. No fellow can stand that sort of 
thing for long.” 

Mrs. Stanhope glanced at him sternly, and said : 

“Could you imagine your temper improved under such 
conditions? She went to him sweet-tempered enough; 
and, if she became a little hasty as the years went on, it 
was only right that she should have won that protection 
for herself. I encouraged her. ' Let yourself be felt , 
Marianne / I used to say.” 

“Poor devil of a man,” whispered Willy, “if Marianne 
were anything like cousin Julia. By Jove, she must 
have made herself felt.” 

“It was temperamental strife,” continued Mrs. Stan- 
hope, “and my poor darling was worsted. She was 
doomed from the beginning. She had no chance against 
that man’s cruel neglect and selfishness. You had only 


88 KATHARINE FRENSHAM 

to look at him to know that he had no emotions and no 
heart.” 

“That is not true,” thought Katharine; but she re- 
mained silent, although increasingly stirred by Mrs. 
Stanhope’s incisive words. 

“And,” said Mrs. Stanhope, “I know from my poor 
friend’s confidences, how greatly she suffered from his 
unvarying unkindness. He killed her by a long series 
of tortures — temperamental tortures — and he must have 
given the finishing stroke to her on that last evening, 
when, by his own confession at the inquest, they had 
had some miserable scene together, and he, no doubt to 
recover from his own outbreak of anger, went off riding, 
leaving her to right herself as well as she could. He 
knew that she had a delicate heart, and that she was 
always jeopardised by over-excitation. All this he knew 
well ; and yet he never tried to make her life happy and 
calm. He never spared her anything. It was so like 
him to bring about a last access of unhappiness for her — 
and then leave her to die broken-hearted alone. I shall 
always say, that if ever a man killed a woman, Clifford 
Thornton killed his wife.” 

There was silence. Mrs. Stanhope’s words cut into 
everyone’s sensitiveness. Everyone was suffering. But 
she herself leaned back as if resting from a newly-accom- 
plished task and well-earned triumph. She had raised 
her voice and testified once more against her dead 
friend’s husband. 

Then Katharine spoke : 

“Well,” she said, “it is a pitiful story; but nothing 
and no one will ever make me believe that Professor 
Thornton is a cruel man. He may have made mistakes. 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


89 


And probably did do so, being only human; but it is 
impossible to believe anything worse of him than that.” 

They all turned to her. Her face was flushed. There 
was a gleam in her eyes, and a curious tenseness in her 
manner. She looked as one who had divined some ad- 
vancing danger, and was standing ready to ward off the 
evil from someone loved and defenceless except for her. 

“Do you know Professor Thornton, Kath?” Willy and 
Margaret exclaimed. “You never told us.” 

“I have met him,” she answered. “I believe he is 
incapable of cruelty — physical, mental, or temper- 
amental — quite incapable of it.” 

“I have known him for twelve years,” said Mrs. 
Stanhope in her steely voice. “And you?” 

“I have known him for three days,” said Katharine, 
undaunted. “But with what you call Temperamental 
knowledge/ Mrs. Stanhope. I do not believe he ever 
said one unkind word to anyone.” 

“He is lucky to inspire such faith in a stranger,” Mrs. 
Stanhope remarked. “He is lucky to have such a staunch 
defender.” 

Katharine looked at her steadily for a moment and 
then said: 

“It is well for him that he has even a stranger to 
defend him, if you go about the world saying that he 
murdered his wife.” 

“You are scarcely accurate. Miss Frensham,” Mrs. 
Stanhope said, flushing. “I did not use that word.” 

“I am as accurate as the ordinary outside world would 
be in the circumstances,” said Katharine. 

“Ah, you are right there,” drawled out Willy Tone- 
dale. “The outside world knows nothing about tempera- 


90 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


mental tortures and temperamental murders, and all that 
sort of confounded subtleness. Torture is torture, and 
murder is murder to the outside world of ordinary dense 
people like myself — and others. I ought to see that man 
and warn him against you, cousin Julia — ’pon my soul, 
I ought.” 

“Oh, there will be no need, Willy,” she said, with a 
short, nervous laugh. “No doubt Miss Frensham will 
do it instead of you.” 

Everyone had stood up, by silent consent dissolving 
the meeting. Mrs. Tonedale, Margaret, Willy, and the 
three or four visitors now looked towards Katharine 
again, wondering how she would meet Mrs. Stanhope’s 
parting thrust. She met it quite simply. She said : 

“I will gladly warn him. Though I daresay he does 
not need to be warned. For at least Mrs. Stanhope does 
not stab in the dark, does she ?” 

And directly she had said these words, she thought of 
the young boy, and a wave of sympathetic anxiety swept 
over her. Supposing that this woman did stab in the 
dark ; supposing that out of mistaken loyalty to her dead 
friend’s memory, she believed it to be a solemn duty to 
tell her version of the story to the young boy — 
Marianne’s son — what then — what then? She was ob- 
viously such a bigot that she was capable of doing any- 
thing to forward the cause which she had at heart. 

At that same moment Mrs. Stanhope was saying to 
herself : 

“The boy shall know — the boy shall know — it is only 
fair to my poor Marianne’s memory that he should learn 
the true history of his mother’s unhappy life.” 

The two women glanced at each other, and each read 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


91 


the other’s thought. Then, after a hasty leave-taking, 
Mrs. Stanhope hurried away. Katharine had an uneasy 
feeling that she ought to have followed her to her very 
door, and thus have made sure that Marianne’s avenging 
colleague wrought no harm that afternoon to the boy 
and his father. She attempted several times to go, but 
was prevented by her friends, who wished to hear some 
of the details of her three years’ travels. 

“I believe you want to chase cousin J ulia and give her 
a ducking in the Serpentine,” said Willy quietly. “By 
Jove, I should like to see it !” 

Katharine laughed. 

“Willy,” she said, “you’re really becoming quite elec- 
trically intelligent. What is the cause of it?” 

“You are, my dear,” he said. “And also that adorable 
female relative of mine always rouses my indignation. 
Shades of my ancestors, what a tongue ! How she would 
yarn to the boy if she ever got hold of him alone.” 

“Ah, that is what I’ve been thinking,” Katharine said, 
turning to him earnestly. “It would be too cruel.” 

“But why should you mind, my dear ?” he said. “After 
all, they are nothing to you— just strangers — that’s all. 
Can’t let yourself be torn in pieces for strangers. Better 
do it for me instead. My word, Kath, but you did speak 
up for him well.” 

“Did I ?” she asked, with a sudden thrill in her voice. 

Willy Tonedale glanced at her and saw a light on her 
face which had never shone for him — never. 

And the cold crept into his faithful heart. 


CHAPTER X. 


M RS. STANHOPE went on her way home 
fiercely indignant with this stranger who 
had dared to defend Clifford Thornton. 
In her own unreasoning anger she felt 
doubly fierce towards him for daring to have a defender. 
She had loved Marianne always and she had disliked 
him always. She was of limited understanding — like 
all bigots. She knew nothing, and wished to know 
nothing about his side of the case. All she knew, was 
that he had made her poor Marianne miserable, and had 
brought about her death. All she hoped now was that 
he might be miserable himself, for ever and ever. In* 
memory of her dear, dead friend, she determined that 
her hand should always be against him. It was a 
simple creed, and, therefore, primitive and strong, like 
all primitive instincts. She knew even less than 
Marianne about sensitive brains, delicate nervous or- 
ganisms, and the surcharged world of thought and 
imagination. When she spoke about temperament, it 
was as though a blacksmith were working at a gold- 
smith’s goblet : as though a rope-maker were working at 
a spider’s web. She honestly believed that Marianne 
had been sacrificed to him. She could not realise that 
Marianne was made of coarser fibre than Clifford Thorn- 
ton. She knew nothing about Marianne’s birth, an- 
tecedents, and environment. She was quite unequipped 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


93 


with delicate understanding of human nature to judge 
between any two people — much less two married people 
— that unfathomable twin-mystery. But she did judge, 
and she condemned him without any reservations. And 
she thought of Marianne’s son, and resolved in her own 
mind that he, too, should judge his father and condemn 
him. 

“It is only right,” she said to herself repeatedly, “that 
the boy should know, and should carry in his mind a 
tender memory of his mother. His father will tell 
him only cruel things about her. She shall not have 
that injustice done to her.” 

She did not take into account the tenderness of Alan’s 
years; she had no instincts of mercy and pity for his 
young thoughts, and his young birthright of forgetful- 
ness. She did not stop to imagine that Marianne herself 
would have wished him to be spared. It never entered 
her mind that Marianne herself would have said : 

“Let the boy be — he is only a boy — let him be — what 
does it all matter now — and he is so young still — let him 
be.” 

She never thought of that. She filled a cup of poison 
ready to put to his lips at the first opportunity: the 
poison of disbelief and doubt. 

“I must find some means of seeing him,” she said to 
herself. “Marianne shall not have the injustice of being 
misinterpreted. 

Full of these thoughts she paused before going into 
Hyde Park. 

“Shall I walk through the Park, or shall I go straight 
to St. James’s Mansions?” she asked herself. “I think 
I will go straight home. I am tired.” 


94 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


But, after she had advanced a few steps, she turned 
back and passed into the Park, impelled to do so against 
her will. It was a charming evening at the beginning 
of April. The spring had come early, and the borders 
were gay with flowers. A young boy came along, whis- 
tling softly. He stopped to look at some of the beds, 
and then went on again. After all, he thought, it was 
not so bad going for this journey to Japan. And all 
the fellows had said they envied him. And father was 
better already. And that was a bully new camera they 
had bought to-day. And, by Jove, he had enjoyed him- 
self yesterday. And 

He looked up and saw Mrs. Stanhope. 

“Alan,” she said, in her steely voice which had always 
jarred on him. His face clouded over. His heart sank. 
He had always disliked her. 

“Alan,” she said, “I have wanted to see you. I was 
thinking of you this very moment. I was by your 
mother’s grave yesterday. Shall we sit down here ? It 
is not cold this evening.” 

She had kept his hand, and led him to the nearest 
bench. He disengaged his hand, and shrank a little 
from her. She did not notice that. 

“Yes,” she repeated. “I stood by your mother’s grave 
yesterday. It is a beautiful stone, simple but beauti- 
ful.” 

“Father and I liked it,” the boy said, a little ner- 
vously. “We — we went there to say good-bye before — 
before going away, you know.” 

“Ah,” she said, “you are going away then ? Are you 
going to leave ‘Falun ?’ ” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 95 

“Yes,” he said, “for a few months. Father is not 
well.” 

There was a pause, and then she said suddenly : 

“Alan, you will never forget your dear mother, will 
you? She died in such a sad, sad way — it breaks one’s 
heart to think of it — doesnt’s it — all alone — without a 
kind word — a kind look — nothing — no one near her — no 
one to help her — alone.” 

The boy bit his lips. Something pulled at his heart- 
strings. 

“You must always think lovingly of her,” she con- 
tinued. “You must always think the very best of her. 
She was a grand, noble woman who had not been under- 
stood. When you are older, you will see it all clearly 
for yourself — see it with your own eyes, not with any- 
one else’s eyes, and then you will know how unhappy 
she was, and how sad she was all — all the days of her 
married life. Poor darling, she was lonely in life and 
lonely in death — you must never forget that — you must 
be loyal to her — you, her son. You were good to her, 
you loved her, you would have loved her more if— if your 
father had allowed you, Alan.” 

The boy’s face was rigid. 

“Father never stopped me from loving mother,” he 
said, half to himself. 

“Ah,” she said bitterly, “when you are older you will 
understand it all only too well. And meanwhile, be 
loyal to her memory — you, her son.” 

The boy’s face softened again. The tears came into 
his eyes. The appeal to his sonship touched him deeply. 
He said nothing, but Mrs. Stanhope realised that his 
silence was charged with grief; for she saw the tears 


96 KATHARINE FRENSHAM 

# 

in his eyes, the flush on his face, and the quivering of 
his mouth. 

“Ah, Alan,” she went on, “and the pity — the pity of 
it all. She might be here with us now — there was no 
reason for her death; it is that which makes it so sad. 
If she had had some terrible illness, one might be com- 
forted a little by her release ; but to be cut off like this 
— suddenly — and in this sad, sad way — ah, how your 
poor father must tear his heart to feel that he had angry 
words with her that night — to think that but for that 
unfortunate incident she might be alive this very mo- 
ment — to think ■” 

She stopped suddenly, for she had already said more 
than she intended. Alan turned his face to her. The 
flush had gone now. He looked deadly pale. 

“Father was always, always good to mother,” he said, 
in a strained tone of voice. “You were not always with 
us. You couldn’t know.” 

“No, no — of course I could not know all,” she said 
soothingly; and again she put her hand on his arm. 
And again he freed himself. 

“But this I do know,” she continued, with great 
gentleness, “that you have lost a noble and unselfish 
mother who loved you with her whole heart — more than 
you ever knew. But I knew. I knew all her hopes and 
fears and ambitions for you; and I knew, too, how she 
yearned for the time when you would love her more and 
more, and understand her more and more. For a mother 
clings heart and soul to her son, Alan. If he does not 
love her, she mourns always, always.” 

She rose from the bench ; and he rose, too, his young 
heart torn and his young spirit troubled. He stood there 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 97 

looking down on the ground, overpowered with many 
emotions. 

“Good-bye, Alan,” she said. “And remember you have 
a friend in me. Come to me in trouble, and I will not 
fail you — for your dear mother’s sake.” 

She left him, and he lingered for a moment scratching 
the ground with his stick. Then he went on his way to 
the Langham. He was not whistling now. He ran up 
against an old gentleman. 

“Look out where you’re going, my boy !” the old man 
said angrily. “Dreaming, I suppose. Boys didn’t dream 
in my time. I’ve no patience with this generation.” 

At the hotel he saw Katharine, who was standing in 
the hall giving some instructions to the porter. She had 
just come back from the Tonedales, whom she had left 
as soon as she could. She had been thinking of him 
all the time, of him and his father and that metallic 
woman; and she had felt that she could not rest until 
she was back again at the Langham, mounting guard, 
as it were, over these strangers who had come so unex- 
pectedly into her life. She greeted the boy and spoke 
some kindly words, which brought a faint smile into his 
face. 

But he slipped away from her, and locked himself up 
in his room. 


CHAPTER XI. 


K ATHARINE spent that night wondering what 
she could say to Professor Thornton to warn 
him against Mrs. Stanhope's biting tongue. 
She felt that she must warn him, even at the 
risk of seeming to intrude on the privacy of his personal 
concerns. She believed that it would be the part of a 
coward to shirk the task, and yet she dreaded to under- 
take it. She said to herself a hundred times over, that 
there was no reason why she should interfere ; they were 
nothing to her — these strangers, their troubles, their 
tragedy were nothing to her. That was the common- 
sense way of looking at the whole matter. They had 
their own lives to live. And she had hers. In a day or 
two their chance companionship would be a thing of 
the past. Why should she be troubled about them? 
Willy Tonedale was right. One could not take every- 
one’s burden and carry it. Ah, there was no common- 
sense about the matter; but there was something else, 
something infinitely more compelling than calm reason — 
the heart’s insistence. 

“I must tell him,” she said. And her heart was 
lighter when she decided that. Then came the difficulty 
of deciding what to say. She did not solve that problem. 
She fell asleep and dreamed, and when she awoke, she 
said: 

“What was it I dreamed I said to him? Ah, I re- 
member I said that Ah, it has gone again.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


99 


But it came back to her when she stood with Clifford 
Thornton alone in the reading-room. She made no pre- 
liminaries, she offered no excuses; she behaved exactly 
as though nothing else could be done by her in the cir- 
cumstances, as though he and she were in some desolate 
region alone together, and she saw some terrible danger 
threatening him and cried : 

“Look out ! Beware !” 

“Professor Thornton,” she said, “yesterday I met an 
enemy of yours. It sounds melodramatic, perhaps, to 
speak of an enemy. Nevertheless, that was what she ap- 
peared to me. You probably know who she is — a Mrs. 
Stanhope. But you cannot know how she speaks of you. 
No one could imagine it, unless one heard it for one- 
self.” 

His drawn face seemed to become thinner as she spoke. 

“She has always disliked me,” he said, in a painfully 
strained voice. 

“It is not merely dislike, it is malice,” Katharine said. 
“It would not matter so much if you were by yourself 
in the world. But there is the boy to think of. Keep 
him away from her. She might poison his heart against 
you. It would be cruel for him, and cruel for you.” 

The expression of intense anxiety on the man’s face 
filled Katharine’s sympathetic heart with a wonderful 
pity. 

“Ah,” he said, as if the words were torn from him. 
“That is the bitterness of it; he might turn against me 
simply and solely because he could not understand; 
he ” 

He broke off and looked at Katharine hopelessly. He 


100 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


appeared to be appealing to her for help in his distress ; 
she could almost have heard his voice saying : 

“What shall I do — what shall I do ? Help me.” 

But the next moment his pride and reserve got the bet- 
ter of his momentary weakness. He gathered himself to- 
gether. He asked for no details, and made no attempt to 
justify himself in her eyes. He did not even give a pass- 
ing thought as to how much or how little she knew of his 
sad story. He felt instinctively that she believed in him. 

He came across to her, and leaned over the table by 
which she was standing. 

“It was beautiful of you to warn me,” he said, quite 
simply. “I know it could not have been easy. But it 
was the act of a true friend.” 

Then he went away. And Katharine, alone with her 
thoughts, threw herself into the armchair and closed her 
eyes. 


CHAPTER XII. 


C LIFFORD THORNTON passed on from that 
moment to a new chapter in his heart’s his- 
tory. He was too stern with himself to yield 
without a struggle to even any secret locked-up 
happiness; and so he tried to turn from the thought 
of Katharine Frensham as from something altogether 
out of his horizon. But, against his wishes, bright hopes 
sprang up within him. Unbidden and harshly-rebuked 
possibilities of joy pressed themselves importunately on 
him. A fair vision of a fresh life rose before him. He 
dispelled it angrily, and returned to his former self, with 
the old tyranny of Marianne chafing him, and the added 
anxiety concerning his young son’s love and loyalty. 
Nevertheless, he had passed on. He was of course too 
proud to ask Katharine what accusation Mrs. Stanhope 
had brought against him, and too reserved to thank her 
the next morning for her words of warning. He did not 
even tell her that he had made up his mind to take an 
earlier boat to New York, and thus remove Alan from 
Mrs. Stanhope’s influence. His secret belief that he was 
responsible for Marianne’s death made him morbidly 
anxious to keep Alan away from anyone who might come 
between them. And Katharine Frensham’s allusion to 
Mrs. Stanhope’s attitude towards him made him doubly 
apprehensive of her powers of making mischief. He 
knew that she had unceasingly stirred up strife between 


102 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


himself and Marianne, and he considered her capable of 
at least making the attempt to cause a breach between 
himself and his son. He knew that she disliked him, 
and that she believed he had always been hard and un- 
kind to poor Marianne. Many a time Marianne herself 
had said to him : 

“ Julia at least appreciates and understands me; she 
at least knows of my unhappiness and your unkind in- 
difference.” 

What would she say to Alan if by chance he passed her 
way? Alan, too, had always disliked her; he, too, had 
felt that she was an enemy to his father and himself; 
nevertheless she would certainly be able to influence him, 
for the very reason that his mother had died in circum- 
stances of great sadness, and generous young hearts re- 
member only the best things of the dead. Marianne 
would conquer as she had always conquered, and the boy’s 
heart would turn from his father. 

Clifford was greatly troubled. “I must have my boy’s 
love, I must have his loyalty,” he said. "I cannot do 
without it. I desire with all my heart that he should 
think lovingly of his mother ; but he must not, shall not 
turn from me. I have done nothing to deserve that he 
should not love me. He shall not see that woman if I 
can help it. She shall not have the chance of saying one 
word against me. His dear young heart shall keep its 
love and trust. The sadness of this tragedy in our lives 
will pass from him; it is passing from him even now. 
And the wound which I, in my selfishness, inflicted, shall 
be healed with a love which father never gave to son be- 
fore. He must and shall believe in me. If I have missed 
other things, at least I will wrest this from life. She 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


103 


may say what she likes to the whole world, but not to 
him; he would not understand. If he were older, I 
would take my chance of his belief or di^Delief. But the 
young judge and are haTd .” 

Then in the midst of his distress he remembered 
Katharine, and again that vision rose before him. He 
tried to turn from it, but in vain. 

“She believed in me,” he said. “Whatever that woman 
may have said to her, she believed in me.” 

He went back to the hotel buoyed up in spite of him- 
self, and found Alan moping in the reading-room. The 
boy looked miserable, and appeared to have no heart for 
anything that was suggested. Clifford remembered that 
he had been quiet at breakfast, and had eaten nothing. 
He had slipped away, evidently wanting to be alone. His 
father glanced at him with some uneasiness. 

“What’s the matter ?” he asked kindly. 

“Nothing,” said Alan a little roughly, and he turned 
away, with a slight flush on his face. 

“Well, we shall soon be off,” Clifford said. “I have 
changed our berths for a week earlier. In a fortnight 
we shall be in New York; then on we go to San Fran- 
cisco, and so on to Japan. Knutty was right to send us 
away from ‘Falun.’ We shall both feel better for the 
change. I shall get rid of my moods and become quite a 
jolly companion for you. We’ll have such splendid 
times. Won’t we?” 

“Yes,” said Alan, but without any ring in his voice. 

The father stood looking sad and puzzled. 

“I am just going out to buy some books,” he said. 
“Come, too?” 

Alan shook his head. 


104 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“No, father,” he said. “I thought Fd like to read.” 

Clifford nodded and went out. 

“It will be all right between us when we are off op 
our travels,” he thought. “We ought to have started 
long ago. I am glad I have berths for an earlier date. 
It will be better for him, and for me. And yet ” 

He made a gesture of impatience with himself. 

“It is high time that I took a journey,” he said 
sternly. 

He bought several dry treatises on scientific subjects, 
a new book on architecture for Alan, and a brochure on 
Alan de Walsingham. He was greatly pleased with this. 

“Alan will be glad,” he said. And then he found an 
amusing book about balloons, also for Alan. And after 
this he saw a Baedeker for Norway and Denmark. 

“I should like Miss Frensham to have that from me,” 
he said, as he handled it dreamily. 

He hesitated over it, put it aside sternly, then went 
back to it, hesitated again, and finally bought it. He had 
a guilty smile on his face when he carried it off. 

“After all, why not ?” he said in excuse to himself. 

Knutty would have been glad to know that he had al- 
lowed himself to go even thus far. Surely again she 
would have whispered : “I see daylight !” 

He passed along Oxford-street, stopping now and then 
to look at the shop windows. He was thinking all the 
time what he should buy for Alan. He went back armed 
with books, chocolates, new penknives, sketch-blocks, 
some fresh kind of printing-paper, and a little pocket- 
microscope. 

The buying of that guide-book had exhilarated him as- 
tonishingly. He had the uplifting joy, that afternoon. 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


105 


of believing in himself ; and because he believed in him- 
self, he was feeling for the moment that all things were 
possible to him : to keep his boy’s love, to take a reason- 
able view of poor Marianne’s death, to mend his torn 
spirit, to lift his head, to lift his heart, and being free 
from harassment, to use to better advantage the gifts of 
his intellect, and — to pass on. He knew that this mood 
would change, but whilst it was on him he was grateful 
and almost jubilant. 

“What should we poor mortals do unless we did believe 
in ourselves sometimes ?” he said. “It is our moments of 
self-confidence which carry us through our years of self- 
doubting.” 

He came in like a schoolboy, tremendously pleased 
with his shoppings, especially with that guide-book. He 
hurried to the reading-room, but Alan was not there; 
and so he hastened to the boy’s bedroom, where he found 
him moping as before. One by one with unconcealed 
eagerness and triumph Clifford displayed his treasures. 
Alan did not seem to care. He scarcely looked at them, 
and even the pocket-microscope aroused no enthusiasm in 
him. Clifford gave no sign of noticing the boy’s indiffer- 
ence and ungraciousness; but he was disappointed, and 
longed to tell Knutty. In the evening Alan was still in 
the same mood, and Clifford made up his mind to speak 
to him in the morning. They were both so reserved that 
speech was not easy to either of them, when it had to do 
with their inmost thoughts ; and Clifford knew that Alan 
was suffering, not sulking. He let the boy go off to bed 
alone, and sat in the reading-room by himself. 

All the old sadness came as a wave over him, and swept 
everything else from him. There was a rift in the lute ; 


106 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


he had been conscious of it ever since Marianne’s death. 
Knutty had laughed at his fears; but even she had no- 
ticed the boy’s strained manner, and had tried to ease 
the tension. And then for a time, things had gone bet- 
ter, and Alan had come nearer to his father again, back, 
indeed, to the old tender comradeship so dear to both of 
them. But now he was retreating once more. Clifford 
knew by instinct that Marianne was between them : Ma- 
rianne in all her imperiousness, tenfold more imperious 
because of her tragic death. 

An hour or so went by, and Clifford still lingered, 
given over to sad memories and anxious fears. Two or 
three people came in, glanced at the evening papers, and 
hurried away. He did not look up. But when Katharine 
opened the door he knew. In spite of himself he came 
out of his sad reveries; in spite of himself a passionate 
gladness seized the man’s heart. He forgot Marianne, 
forgot Mrs. Stanhope. He forgot Alan. He forgot 
everything. 

He threw all his former life, with its failures and bur- 
dens, to the winds, and rushed recklessly on, free, for the 
moment — gloriously free — with the song of spring and 
hope resounding in his ears and urging him onwards, on- 
wards ! 

He rose at once and went to meet her. 

“Ah,” he said. “I must just go and fetch that book 
about Denmark. I want to tell you several things about 
my old Knutty’s country. I will not be one moment 
gone.” 

He hurried away, leaving her, too, with the song of 
love and life and hope echoing around her. Her loneli- 
ness had passed from her. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


107 


He ran np the stairs to his bedroom, found the book, 
and was just running down again, when he paused out- 
side his boy’s room which was opposite to his own. 

“I will slip in and see if he is asleep,” he thought. 
“Then my mind will be easier about him.” 

He opened the door gently, treading as softly as a lov- 
ing mother might tread who has come in the stealth of 
the night to see if all was well with the beloved bairns ; 
to touch each one on the dear head, as in blessing, to 
smile at each one and then creep out again, satisfied and 
comforted. Alan was sleeping, but restlessly. The bed- 
clothes were thrown off him, and he was murmuring 
something in his dreams. His father bent over him 
and covered him up. He did not wake, but went on, 
whispering a few disconnected words. Clifford bent to 
listen and he heard: “Mother .... Mrs. Stcmdhope 
. . . .” Then there came a sort of sob. The man’s 
heart stood still. He waited with bowed head. The boy 
was dreaming of his mother. Was he perhaps remem- 
bering in his dream how he used to come and say to his 
father: “Mother has been with Mrs. Stanhope to-day.” 
That was the only comment on Marianne which ever 
passed between father and son; it was their code, their 
signal of danger. Was it that? Or what was it? What 
was troubling him ? 

Suddenly the thought flashed through the man’s mind : 

“ Has he seen that woman somewhere V' 

And again the old miserable fear took possession of 
him. He longed to kneel down by the side of the bed 
and beg his little son to tell him everything that was in 
his heart, so that nothing and no one might ever come 
between them. He knew that when the morrow came, 


108 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


he himself would be too proud and reserved to ask, and 
his boy too proud and reserved to own to any secret grief, 
however great. He had been like that himself as a boy 
— he was scarcely any different now — he, a grown man; 
he understood so well this terrible stone wall of reserve 
which the prisoners themselves would fain pierce. Sup- 
posing he were to waken the boy now and ask him this 
very moment? Perhaps it would be easier to tell this 
very moment. 

He did not waken him after all ; for Alan’s restlessness 
subsided suddenly, and he passed into quiet sleep. So 
Clifford stole out of the room and stood waiting at the 
top of the staircase, in doubt as to whether he should 
go down or not. At last he went down, impelled against 
his will. Katharine saw at once the change of expression 
on his face. 

“I feel greatly troubled, Miss Frensham,” he said, in 
his half-reluctant way. “My boy has been very unhappy 
all the day, and now he is talking in his sleep about — 
about that Mrs. Stanhope. I hope with all my heart 
after what you told me that she has not seen him.” 

“Oh, no, no. It can only be a coincidence,” Katharine 
said. 

“Do you really think so ?” he said, with a faint smile 
on his troubled face. 

“Indeed I do,” she answered emphatically. 

“Ah,” he said, “ the worst of it is, that I do not believe 
in coincidences. There is a secret threadless thread of 
communication running through the whole region of 
thought and feeling and event.” 

“Then I must find something else to say to you,” 
Katharine said, still undaunted. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


109 


And she looked at him, and for the very life of her 
she could not keep back the words which came with a 
rush to her lips: 

“Believe in yourself more, Professor Thornton, as I 
do.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A FTER a few days Clifford Thornton and his 
boy started for New York, and Katharine was 
left once more alone in heart and spirit. She 
had no idea of the great struggle which had 
been going on in the man’s mind: a double encounter 
with the past tragedy of his life and the future possi- 
bilities of love and happiness. When he said good-bye 
to her, there seemed to be no sign of regret over the 
parting which had come as a matter of course. She 
could not know that behind his impenetrable manner 
was concealed a passionate longing which appalled him 
by its insistence and intensity. She could not know 
that his hurried departure was out of sternness to him- 
self, as well as out of consideration for the boy’s well- 
being. She could not know that once, twice, several 
times he had nearly thrown up the whole journey for the 
sake of staying longer near her — in her presence. If she 
could have known this, she would have been comforted. 
But she only saw that a grave sad man had gone back 
to his past. There had been a moment of travelling on ; 
for that moment they had travelled together. But now 
the brief journey was over. She lived it all over again : 
she went through the pleasant meetings, the grave im- 
personal talks, the sudden passings on, the sudden re- 
treats : the feeling of fellowship, the feeling of aloofness : 
her championship of him to Mrs. Stanhope : her cham- 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


111 


pionship of him to him : her entire belief in him openly 
expressed direct to him. 

“My belief in him waits for him whether he wants it 
or not. And I am glad that he knows it” she said to 
herself proudly. 

But in her heart of hearts she knew that he wanted it. 
If she had not known it, she might, for all her brave 
show of spirit, have regretted her impulsive outcry. 

But she regretted nothing — nothing except that he had 
gone. She thought of the men who had wanted to marry 
her, men unburdened with sad histories and memories, 
men to whom life had been joyous, and circumstance 
favourable. She had pushed them all aside without a 
single pang. But this stranger, who was no stranger, 
and who was claimed by his past, Katharine yearned to 
detain. But he had gone. 

She gathered herself together to pass on. She looked 
about for a flat, and found what she wanted across West- 
minster Bridge, in Stangate. There she established her- 
self, and began to see some of her old friends, and take a 
fresh survey of London. Katharine was intensely pa- 
triotic, and having been three years from home was eager 
to see once more the favourite sights and places to which 
absence had lent a glamour of love and romance. She 
spent hours in her own surroundings : by the Embank- 
ment, in the Abbey, round about the Houses of Parlia- 
ment. She sat in the Abbey, enjoying the dim light and 
hushed silence of the Past. Lonely thoughts did not 
come to her there. There, the personal fades from one. 
One is caught up on wings. And if the organ should 
play, the throb of the outside life is stilled. 

She haunted Trafalgar Square. She watched the 


112 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


Horse Guards change sentry. She went down to the 
City, sat in St. Paul’s, visited the Guildhall. Her 
friends laughed lovingly at her. 

“Ah,” she answered ; “go and live out of the old coun- 
try for a few years ; and if you don’t feel a thrill when 
you return, you are not worthy of having been born in 
England.” 

She went down to the Natural History Museum. She 
spent hours there, lingering in the Mineral-room, where 
she had been with Clifford Thornton and his boy. It 
comforted her to be there. She went over all the beau- 
tiful things he had pointed out to her ; she recalled how 
an unknown mysterious subject had become as a romance 
full of wonder and interest. 

She had meetings with the three devoted musicians, 
lunching with them at restaurants representative of their 
respective nationalities. Ronald did not go with her. 

“No use asking ‘brother,’ ” said Signor Luigi, waving 
his arms and giving a sort of leap in the air. “Mac- 
caroni of my native land ! I will do the role of the ador- 
able lady — the Signora Grundy !” 

“No use asking ‘brother,’” said Monsieur Gervais. 
“ ‘Brother’ is a grand gentleman now, and goes to 
‘Princes.’ He has the stiff necks now.” 

“No use asking ‘brother,’ ” said Herr Edelhart. 
“ ‘Brother’ likes not to come without madame his wife, 
and madame does not love the quartette, does not admire 
my wunderbar tone. Donner wetter! what a tone I 
have !” 

Katharine laughed with them and at them, and loved 
to be in their company, but her heart was far away ; and 
in the midst of the fun her thoughts went straying to 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


113 


that man who had come in that unexpected way into her 
life — and gone. She fretted, and there was no one in 
whom she could have confided. Ronnie was too much 
taken up with his own affairs and his passionate adora- 
tion of his wife to have any real mental leisure for her. 
Katharine saw that great love, even as great sorrow, 
shuts the whole world out. She knew herself excluded 
from his inner shrine, whilst his outward social sur- 
roundings were increasingly uncongenial to her. She 
was troubled about him, too. He looked harassed, and 
had lost the old light-heartedness of three years ago. 
She tried in her own kindly way to probe him; but in 
vain. She turned away sadly, recognising that she was 
no longer his confidante, and he was no longer hers. 

She was happier with the Tonedales ; and to them she 
went from time to time during those sad weeks, and 
continued to sit to Willy for that eternal portrait of 
Mary, Queen of Scots. 

“Thank Heaven, Kath,” he said one day, “you still 
have some leisure. No one has any leisure nowadays. 
Even Margaret has got dragged by the scruff of the neck 
into what my delightful cousin Julia calls f a strenuous 
life/ Always at something, always doing something for 
some one who doesn’t want that something done ; always 
working at some cause. Great Scott, Kath ! I don’t mind 
you going into business so much, but if you take up a 
Cause I shall commit suicide! Darling cousin Julia is 
great on Causes, you know. Good Heavens! What a 
tongue that woman has ! If Causes want tongues, then 
she ought to get permanent employment without any dif- 
ficulty. By Jove, though, you gave it to her that day, 
didn’t you ?” 


114 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


Katharine had arrived in a state of great depression 
on that afternoon; and when Willy began speaking of 
Mrs. Stanhope, her thoughts turned at once to Clifford 
Thornton, and her face became full of grief. Willy 
noticed the change in her expression, but went on paint- 
ing silently. When he looked at her again, he saw tears 
in her eyes. He put down palette and brush and came 
to her. He saw at once that something was wrong with 
her, and all his kindest feelings of concern sprang up to 
protect her. 

“Why, Kath,” he said, “what’s the matter with you? 
Any one been unkind to you? By Jove, I’ll let them 
know if they have. They won’t do it a second time. 
You should have heard me bullyragging cousin Julia. I 
gave her a bit of my mind for being so disagreeable to 
you the other day. What is wrong, Kath ? Tell me, my 
dear.” 

She looked at him in a forlorn way. 

“I am unhappy, Willy,” she said; “that’s what is 
wrong.” 

“Well, you might at least tell me what it is, my dear,” 
he said. “You know I would do anything to help you. 
Anything on earth.” 

“You cannot help he,” she said listlessly. “It is some- 
thing I have to fight out in myself, old fellow.” 

He glanced at her, and then said : 

“I believe w T e have known each other twenty years, 
Kath.” 

She nodded assent. 

“Then I think the least you can do for me, if you can’t 
love me, is to let me be your best friend,” he said. “We 
all know that Ronnie is so taken up with Gwendolen 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


115 


that he has no thought for anyone else just now. But I 
— I have no wife. And my mind is at leisure, and my 
brain too — such as it is — and always at your service, as 
you know.” 

“If only I had a profession,” Katharine said. “That 
has been my mistake all along, Willy. Everyone ought 
to have a calling — no matter what it is ; and it won't fail 
them in moments of poverty and trouble and — and deso- 
lation.” 

“Ah, you are feeling desolate,” he said sadly. “I knew 
you would when you came back and realised that Ronnie 
was married. I dreaded it for you.” 

“It is not only that,” she answered, “though I have 
felt that bitterly. But ” 

“Well?” he said, turning to her. 

“I should like to tell you, Willy,” she replied trem- 
blingly — ff but it is not fair on you.” 

“I know what it is,” he said quite quietly, hut with a 
sudden illumination on his face. “You have fallen in 
love with that stranger, Professor Thornton, Kath.” 

There was no answer, no sign. Katharine sat rigid 
and speechless. 

“It would be fairer to tell me,” he said, “fairer and 
kinder. Believe me.” 

“Yes, I have fallen in love with the stranger,” she an- 
swered gently; and as she thought of him afresh, the 
tears streamed down her cheeks. 

Willy Tonedale watched her a moment. 

“Well, my dear,” he said, “I can't pretend to be glad; 
but of course you had to love someone sooner or later — 
even I knew that.” 

“I wish I had something else to tell you, Willy,” she 


116 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


said simply, “something to make yon happy ; bnt I can’t 
help myself, can I?” 

“No, my dear,” he said, in a low voice. “ ‘The wind 
bloweth where it listeth.’ And yon have never been any- 
thing except yonr own frank splendid self to me.” 

“It came over me the moment I saw him,” Katharine 
said, half to herself. “I knew nothing abont him, bnt I 
seemed to have come suddenly out of a lonely wilderness 
— such a lonely wilderness — and found him. Then I 
heard part of his history, and it filled me with great 
pity, as it does now. And then we met again in the hotel. 
It was so strange that we should meet there, each know- 
ing nothing of the other. And yet it seemed natural to be 
together; it seemed almost to be the continuation, not 
the beginning of something. And then — that’s all, Willy. 
He has gone his way.” 

He will never forget you,” Willy said dreamily. “He 
could not if he wished.” 

“I suppose if I were a well-balanced sort of person,” 
Katharine went on, “with the regulation mind which a 
regulation woman is supposed to have, I ought not to 
have allowed myself to think twice of him — him so re- 
cently bereaved of his wife. And, having allowed it, I 
ought to be prepared to receive the reproaches of all the 
British matrons in the world. I know all that, and yet I 
have not been able to help myself, Willy, though I’ve 
been ashamed, too.’’ 

“There was no reason for you to be ashamed,” he said. 
“She had died and gone her way before you even saw 
him. Don’t be miserable about that, Kath. You could 
not do anything mean or horrible if you tried till Dooms- 
day.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


117 


“How you believe in me, Willy,” she exclaimed. 
“That makes me ashamed. But it is a great comfort, 
too.” 

“Ah,” he said sadly, “I knew that you loved him when 
you spoke up for him to cousin Julia. Your face told 
me that, Kath.” 

And then there was a silence between them. Willy 
had lit a cigar, and he walked up and down the studio, 
his eyes fixed on the floor. At last he raised his head, 
and stood still in front of her. 

“And what are you going to do now ?” he asked. 

“Oh, I am going to gather myself together somehow,” 
she replied, with something of her old vivacity. “One 
has to live.” 

“Yes, yes, you must do that, and you must take com- 
fort and courage,” he said. “He cannot forget you.” 

“Ah, Willy,” she cried, as though in sudden pain; “but 
he is a man sad and overburdened — a man with a broken 
spirit — perhaps if things had been different — but 
now ” 

Willy came nearer. His face was pale and his eyes 
were a little dim. 

“Look here, Kath,” he said, “you take my word for it, 
you were not born for unhappiness. By Jove, and you 
shan’t have it either. You were meant for all the best 
and brightest things in the world, and, by Jove, you 
shall have them. I’ll help you to get them — we’ll all 
help you to get them ; you must have anything you want 
— any one you want, only you mustn’t be unhappy. I 
can’t stand that — never could stand that — always was a 
fool about you, Kath — always shall be one — never could 
change if I wanted to; don’t want to — unless — unless 


118 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


I could have been the man with the broken spirit.” 
Then Katharine forgot about herself and remembered 
only Willy. All her kind and generous feelings broke 
through the barrier of her grief. She sprang to her feet, 
brushed away her tears, and turned to him with impetu- 
ous eagerness. 

“Willy,” she said, e I’ve been a selfish brute pouring 
out my troubles to you in this way — poor old fellow. 
What have I done to you in return for your faithful 
kindness of all these years ? Given you pain and disap- 
pointment and sadness and never a glimmer of hope, and 
now my own selfish confidence about my feelings for an- 
other man. What can I do to ease your kind, unselfish 
heart? I know there is not much I can do — but there 
must be something. Let me do it, whatever it is.” 

A tumult came into Willy’s heart. A light came into 
his eyes. He quenched the light; he quelled the tumult 
for her dear sake. 

“There is one thing you can do for me, Kath,” he said 
in a voice which trembled ; “don’t ever regret you trusted 
me and told me. You couldn’t have told everyone. It 
had to be the right person. Don’t take that from me. 
And, you see, I knew. I knew by instinct. So don’t 
reproach yourself. You’ve never been anything else ex- 
cept a brick to me ever since I can remember you.” 

She shook her head in deprecation of his praise, and 
said gently : 

“I will never regret that I trusted you, Willy.” 

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, with more of his old 
drawling manner again. “And now let’s have another 
shot at my immortal masterpiece. That’s right, Kath. 
Dry your eyes. Pull yourself together like Mary, Queen 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


119 


of Scots, did on the scaffold. By Jove, she must have 
been a stunner! I shall never believe that when her 
head dropped off, it was the head of a wizened-up old 
woman. If that was the truth, I don’t want the truth. 
By J ove, here’s tea ! Margaret has gone off to a Cause, 
and mother has gone to a dentist and then to a Christian 
Science meeting. Those Christian Scientists pretend 
they can do without doctors, but they stick to the dentists 
right enough. No, I’ll pour out the tea, Kath. You 
stay where you are, on the scaffold — I mean the plat- 
form. My word, what a brain I have! It isn’t only 
slow, but it’s so deuced confused, isn’t it ?” 

So he tried to cheer her ; and when he took her to her 
flat that afternoon she had regained her outward com- 
posure, and felt all the better for having had the blessing 
of a true friend’s kindness. His last words were : “Don’t 
you dare to regret that you trusted me.” 

But when he was alone, his face looked ashen and sad, 
and his eyes had a world of grief in them. For that 
evening, at least, Willy Tonedale, his beautiful features 
illuminated by love and loss, might well have stood for 
the portrait of a man with a broken spirit. 

And whilst he was passing through his hour of sad- 
ness Katharine was reading a letter from the Danish 
botanists, Ejnar and Gerda Ebbesen, Knutty’s nephew 
and niece. They wrote in answer to her letter to say 
that they had left Denmark and were spending their 
holidays at a Norwegian farm. They suggested that she 
might be inclined to bring the botanical parcel to them 
there. Their aunt was with them, and she was most 
interested to hear that Miss Frensham had made the ac- 
quaintance of her Englishman and his boy. 


120 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“I shall go,” Katharine said. “There is nothing to 
prevent me. “I shall see the old Dane whom he loves,” 
she thought, with a glow of warmth in her heart. 


In a few days she packed up and went to Norway. 
( End of Part 7.) i 


PART II— IN NORWAY. 


All the spellings and expressions are Norwegian and Danish, 
and are, therefore, not to be mistaken for incorrect German. 

CHAPTER I. 

F ROKEN KNUDSGAARD pretended to grumble 
a good deal at having to leave Copenhagen and 
go to Norway with Gerda and Ejnar. But 
there was no help for it. It was a time-hon- 
oured custom that she spent the whole summer with her 
nephew and niece. It was true that they saw each other 
constantly all through the year, for Tante lived opposite 
the Orstedpark, and the botanists, who lived at Fred- 
eriksberg, passed that way every time they went to the 
Botanic Museum and Library, and would never have 
neglected to run in for a chat. Sometimes, also, they 
lunched with her in her cosy little home, where, in the 
spring, she saw the limes of the Boulevard unfold their 
tender leaves, and where in summer she watched the sun 
disappear in the northwest behind the trees. It was in- 
deed a pretty little home, made, so she said, wickedly 
comfortable by her Clifford’s kindness. 

But these fragments of companionship were not con- 
sidered enough by the botanists; and summer was the 
time when they claimed Tante for their own, whether 
she liked it or not. But of course she liked it; only she 
felt it to be her duty as a healthy human being to have a 
permanent grievance. 


122 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


“Don’t talk to me about giving up my grievances,” she 
said. “All right-minded people ought to have them. 
Rise above them, indeed ! Thank you ! I don’t want to 
rise above anything !” 

However, after the usual formality of grumbling, 
Tante was charmed at the prospect of having a change. 
Ejnar had set his heart on going to the Gudbrandsdal to 
find a particular kind of shrub which grew only in one 
district of that great valley. He was a gentle fellow ex- 
cept where his botanical investigations were concerned. 
And if anyone thwarted him over his work, he became 
quite violent. Tante Knudsgaard used to look at him 
sometimes when he was angry, and say in her quaint 
way: 

“Kjaere, one would think you were an anarchist in- 
stead of a harmless botanist. One would think you spent 
your days with dynamite instead of with innocent flowers 
and mosses which don’t explode.” 

Gerda, also a botanist, and just as clever and distin- 
guished as her husband, wished specially to go up to 
Tromso, to find some particular kind of saxifrage, grow- 
ing nowhere in Europe except on the Tromsdalstind. 

But Tante struck. 

“No,” she said. “You don’t get me to go up there 
within the Arctic circle. I’ve had quite enough of ice- 
bergs this spring with my two poor icebergs in England. 
Poor darlings ! I suppose they have reached America by 
now. I ought to be hearing soon.” 

“I cannot imagine why you made them go so far,” 
Gerda said. 

“When people are in trouble they must always go a 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 123 

long way,” said Tante. “Even if they come back the 
next moment.” 

“You might have sent them to Tromso,” Gerda re- 
marked, with a grim smile. “That is almost as far. 
And then we could all have gone and found the saxifrage. 
You would have been willing enough to go if you had 
had your Englishman with you.” 

“Perhaps, who knows?” replied Tante. “The human 
heart is a wayward thing. I think you have never heard 
me say otherwise. But why not go to Tromso by your- 
self, dear one? You won't feel at all lonely if you have 
the companionship of the saxifrage. You won't miss 
Ejnar and me in the least. You won't want to come 
back the next moment after you have left us. Oh, no ! 
You won't miss us.” 

“No,” answered Gerda, giving her a hug. “But you 
would miss me. And Ejnar would be wretched if he 
hadn't me to quarrel with.” 

“Yes, you must have your quarrels,” said Tante 
gravely. “All well-conducted botanists would go to per- 
dition without two or three quarrels a week. You must 
stay, Gerda, if only for the sake of science. Only, give 
in without a mortal battle this time, and let us go 
peacefully to the Gudbrandsdal. Ejnar has the dyna- 
mite-look on his face. He has set his heart on that 
shrub. Heaven and St. Olaf help us ! We must get it — 
even if we have to scale mountains. Imagine me scaling 
mountains, dear one. Have pity on me, and come and 
help !” 

Gerda gave way; a mortal battle was avoided, the 
dynamite-look disappeared from Ejnar's gentle face, and 
all three started off for Norway in good spirits and ad- 


124 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


mirable tempers. Ejnar was a tall man, thin and dark 
for a Dane. He looked rather “comatose,” as Tante 
called him, except when his botanical emotions were 
aroused. Then he sprang into life and became an in- 
spired being, with all the sublime beauty of intelligence 
on his face. He only cared for botany, Gerda, and Tante 
Knudsgaard. He did not positively dislike music and did 
not always go out of the room when Gerda sang. He was 
a silent fellow, and scarcely ever laughed, except over his 
work, and then sometimes he would give forth peals of 
hearty laughter, most refreshing to hear and quite boy- 
ish. That was when he had done some satisfactory bit 
of difficult classification. Gerda, being musical as well 
as botanical, was rather more human. She was of middle 
height, slight and wonderfully fair ; with an abundance 
of fair' hair, and a pair of glacier-blue eyes. She sang 
gloriously, in a wild, untrained manner which thrilled 
through everyone except Ejnar. He had, however, the 
greatest and most generous admiration of her knowledge 
as a botanist, and was most particular that every paper 
with which she had helped him, should bear her name 
as well as his. In fact, in his way he loved her dearly. 
Their quarrels were entirely scientific, never human. In 
their simple way they led an almost ideal life, for they 
were free to work in an untrammelled fashion at the 
subjects they loved, Ejnar holding no official position in 
connection with his work, but being sleeping partner in 
his brother’s glove-factory in Christianhavn. They were 
very happy together, and although Gerda had a restless 
theory that it was ridiculous to be always together, she 
had been utterly miserable on the one occasion when she 
had gone off alone, and had returned the next day. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


125 


Tante, remembering this, teased her continually, of 
course ; and when the good ship brought them to Chris- 
tiania, she said to her : 

“Are you quite sure you are not wanting to go off to 
Tromso alone? You could come back the next minute, 
you know, quite easily.” 

“Na,” answered Gerda gaily. “I prefer to stay and be 
teased !” 

They saw the sights of Christiania, spending most of 
the time in the Botanical Department of the University ; 
and then took the train up to the Gudbrandsdal, the 
largest and most fertile valley in Norway. They had 
engaged rooms for themselves at a large Gaard (farm- 
house) owned by rich peasants of noble lineage, who in 
the summer months took a few guests into their spacious 
dwelling-place. The Gaard had a splendid situation, ly- 
ing on the mountain-side, about two thousand feet above 
sea-level, and commanding a far-stretching view of the 
great valley, which was spread out generously below, 
dotted with hundreds of farms, and with two shining 
rivers flowing on separately, meeting each other, and 
then passing on together. Looking down on all those 
homesteads, one was reminded all the time of the words 
of the Norwegian poet, who sings of Norway, the land of 
a thousand homes. Red Gaards, being new buildings 
added to the original family-home of many generations : 
bright red, standing out boldly and picturesquely against 
the grain fields and the green of the firs and birches, and 
dark-brown, almost black Gaards, burnt to their deep 
dye by the ever-working hand of Time. Fine old Gaards, 
not built of puny slices of wood with which builders con- 
tent themselves in these mean-spirited days; but fash- 


126 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


ioned of entire tree-trunks, grand old fellows of the 
giant-forests of the past. Dense masses of firs and 
birches : down in the valley and advancing boldly up the 
mountain-sides, and lining the deep gorges of the side- 
valleys as well, and pressing on to a quite unreasonable 
height, from a conventional point of view, firs and 
birches contending all the time as to which should climb 
the higher. Waterfalls here and there, catching the 
sunlight and sending forth iridescent jewels of rarest 
worth. Hundreds of grass-grown roofs, some with 
flowers and some even with a fir or two amidst the grass. 
White bell-towers to every storehouse, with the bell to 
summon all the labourers to food and rest. Countless 
fields of grain of every kind : some of it cut and fixed on 
sticks at regular intervals, so that a regiment would seem 
to be waiting the word of command: ready and im- 
movable : a peaceful region of warfare. And a warfare 
in reality, too, a hard nature being the enemy. 

Then those wonderful rivers: one of them coming 
straight from a glacier and therefore unmistakable, even 
though the changing clouds might give to it varying 
shades of colour. Grey and glacier, blue and glacier, 
rose and glacier, black and glacier, white and glacier, 
golden and glacier. And the other river, not less beau- 
tiful because less complex. And the two together wind- 
ing through the valley: now hidden from sight, now 
coming into view again, now glistening in the far dis- 
tance, and now disappearing finally — no — one more 
glimpse if one strains the eye — one more greeting, and 
then, farewell — they have gone their way! 

And the snow mountain — not very near and not very 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


127 


snowy just now ; but, for all that, the glory of the coun- 
try, the very desire of one’s heart, the shrine of one’s 
secret and mysterious longings. 


CHAPTER II. 


B OTH the botanists and Tante were delighted 
with the place. Tante, who adored limitless 
space, had not quite liked the idea of coming 
to a valley. 

“Yon know I have always hated restraints of any 
kind, dear ones,” she said. “And even at the age of sev- 
enty, I desire to continue in the straight path of blessed 
uncontrol. Valleys make me shudder a little — like con- 
ventions ! Bah !” 

But even she was content when she saw the immense 
proportions of her prison. 

“Well,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, “there 
is space and freedom enough for me, for a little while. 
All is well with me, dear ones. Go and find your shrubs 
and be happy. It is true that you have brought your 
poor stout relation to a place on the mountain-side where 
she can neither go up nor down. Nothing could have 
been more cruel. But no matter. She will look at the 
view and try to feel chastened by patience and all the 
other dull virtues. And she will go on knitting socks for 
the dear English soldiers. They will never get them, of 
course. Still, she will do her best for them, hoping that 
King Red Tape will allow them to be delivered. Yes, 
dear ones, hasten to your shrubs and have some stimu- 
lating quarrels over them. Tante is content for a minute 
or two.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


129 


And she really was happy, and deeply interested in the 
owners of the Gaard, rich landowners, Bonder, aristo- 
crats of Norway, direct descendants of kings and chief- 
tains — Vikinger, in fact; proud and reserved: proud of 
their noble lineage, and reserved of feeling and in man- 
ner, and yet, when tactfully approached, capable of the 
greatest kindness and appreciative understanding; dig- 
nified in behaviour, and refined in form and feature: 
bearing on them, indeed, the royal seal of good birth and 
good breeding. The Solli family was one of the oldest 
and noblest in the valley, and had the most important 
and most highly decorated and carved pew in the old 
brown church. There were three girls : stately Ragnhild, 
lovely Ingeborg, and gentle little Helga, the pet of the 
family. And there were two sons, Karl and J ens. Karl, 
being the elder, would in time inherit the Gaard, paying 
his brothers and sisters a share, and giving to his father 
and mother mysterious dues called Foderaad. But as 
Solli and his wife were strong and active, and Karl was 
not even betrothed, there was no occasion for the older 
people to retire; and, meanwhile, an older couple still, 
the grandparents, were eking out their lives in the com- 
fortable old black dower-house in the court of the Gaard. 
Grandmother (Bedstemor) had never wanted to retire, 
and bore on her face a settled look of disappointment 
which had been accentuated by the coming and going of 
twenty years. Grandfather (Bedstefar) had been ailing 
for many years. He lay in the big bedroom of the black 
house, and waited for the caressing hand of Death. 

SollFs wife, whose Christian name was Inga, and who 
in accordance with custom was called Mor (mother) 
Inga, was, in her stately way, greatly attracted to the 


130 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


old Danish lady, and told her many interesting details 
about the Gaard. Tante had such perfect tact, and was 
such a comfortable easy creature to be with, that she 
found herself soon en rapport with the family. A glass 
of gooseberry wine, followed on the next day by some 
corn brandy, seemed to indicate that a delightful ac- 
quaintanceship was ripening; and when Mor Inga took 
her to the Stabur (the storehouse), that most sacred 
precinct of every self-respecting Norwegian Gaard, and 
showed her the treasures and mysteries of Norwegian 
housekeeping, everyone felt that Froken Knudsgaard 
“had arrived.” Even the disagreeable old magistrate 

(Sorenskriver)* from S , one of the eight or ten 

guests, admitted that. 

“She has seen the Stabur,” he said, with a grim smile, 
and he actually forgot to help himself first to cheese, but 
passed her a few delicate shavings ; a sure sign from him 
of even passing respect. 

After an introduction to the Stabur, any other hon- 
our on earth was easy of attainment; and no one was 
surprised to learn that Ragnhild was going to put up 
her loom and teach the Danish lady to weave. And Mor 
Inga fetched great-grandmother’s old painted spinning- 
wheel from the top room of the Stabur and put it in 
the little balcony which overlooked the courtyard; and 
she brought some fresh wool from the woolroom — an- 
other sacred spot — and sent for old Kari, who was espe- 
cially clever at carding the wool. And Tante sat and 
knitted, whilst old Kari carded the wool and Mor Inga 

• Sorenskriver, magistrate. He would be addressed always 
by his title. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


131 


span. This was T ante’s first introduction to old Kari, 
eighty years old, and full of fairy lore. 

“Ah,” whispered Mor Inga to Tante, “Kari can tell 
thee many stories of the Gudbrandsdal if she likes. But 
it must be in secret, when there is no young person near 
to laugh and disbelieve. One day thou shalt give her a 
little coffee in a packet — all for herself — and then thou 
wilt hear all sorts of things.” 

But to-day Kari only carded the wool, smiling amus- 
edly at being in the company of the big Danish lady, 
who spoke to her so kindly and treated her as though 
she were a lady herself and not an old parish-woman 
who had no home of her own. Ja, ja, that was very 
nice, and Kari scratched her head, and smiled more and 
more, until even the furrows on her grim old face were 
filled up with smiles, and her eyes seemed almost young 
and very bright. 

“Ah,” said Tante, with a friendly nod, “I know some- 
one who has been very pretty. Oh, I have eyes — sharp, 
sharp eyes. I can see!” 

And Mor Inga laughed and said : 

“Kari was beautiful, and she could dance too. They 
say that, in the old days, no one could dance the spring- 
dance like Kari.” 

“Nei, nei!” said Kari, smiling more and more still. 
And her thoughts wandered back to her Ole — dead these 
twenty years and more. He had always said that no one 
could dance like Kari. 

All this kept Froken Knudsgaard busy; and, indeed, 
her distractions increased as the days went on. Some- 
times she sat in the balcony which looked over the splen- 
did view, and, seized by a sudden enthusiasm for nature, 


132 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


watched the ever-changing colours of the rivers, and the 
shadows on the hill-sides, and listened to the music of 
the waterfall down below in the Yinstra gorge. But 
she did not pretend to be able to live on Nature’s great 
wonders alone. She was delightfully candid about it. 

“No, my dear ones,” she said to Ejnar and Gerda, “I 
am the wicked product of a beautifully wicked world. 
I need my fellow-sinners. It would never have contented 
me to lie flat on my stomach looking for flowers and 
grasses, and so forth. Nor would it have been desirable 
for me. I should never have got up !” 

Nevertheless, when her botanists came back from their 
wanderings, with their green tin wallets full of mystic 
treasures unguessed at by the uninitiated, she was eager- 
ness itself to know whether they had had “good hunt- 
ing.” And when Gerda said : 

“Wicked old Tante, you know you are interested in 
these things,” she answered gaily: 

“No, no; but I have accepted my fate. Since my best 
beloved ones are all scientific sillies, I have to appear 
to be interested in what they do.” 

She felt it to be her duty to secure, on behalf of 
science, a big study for her botanists, and Mor Inga let 
her have a vast room in one of the out-buildings. 

“They must have plenty of room to quarrel in,” she 
explained to Mor Inga. “Everything goes so much 
more easily if there is generous space.” 

“And,” she added to herself, “it is my experience that 
scientific people are safer caged-up in their laboratories 
and studies. You know they are all right then. When 
they are wandering about, they might get lost ; but when 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 133 

they are shut up, they are comparatively safe, barring 
brain fever and explosions, of course.” 

So she caged her botanists, and felt herself free to 
amuse herself with human nature whilst they were im- 
mersed in the study of nature. 

“Well, then, good-bye for the moment,” she said, when 
she shut them up for the first time. “I will now go and 
have a few disagreeable words with that horrid Soren- 
skriver who dislikes my beloved English. I will go and 
sit quite near him, and knit my stockings for the dear 
English soldiers. That annoys him beyond everything. 
What a delight to see his irritation ! Poor Sorenskriver ! 
He suffers, and I enjoy. That is the way in life, and 
very amusing too. My poor dear ones, what a pity you 
cannot have a little fun too. Well, I suppose you do get 
it though your microscopes.” 

But they had a great deal of fun in a quiet way. No 
one could be long with Tante without catching a little 
of her gaiety ; and even Ejnar was heard to laugh some- 
times over matters which had nothing to do with his 
work. And Gerda left her cage and went singing in the 
birch woods above the Gaard, and along the mountain 
paths. She was content, too, and had forgotten about 
the saxifrage. And Tante attempted short little strolls 
along the easiest road, and always stopped by the black 
hay-barn near the group of mountain-ashes, which re- 
joiced her eyes. Here she sat down and took out her 
opera glasses, really to observe the clouds, though she 
pretended always to be looking at the numberless Gaards 
and barns which covered the hill-sides and mountain- 
slopes. But once she forgot her role of indifference to 
nature, and cried enthusiastically to Gerda: 


134 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“By St. Olaf ! I never saw such soft clouds in my life, 
nor such colours ! And just look at the reflection in the 
rivers, Gerda. Sapristi, how beautiful !” 

“What is this I hear?” cried Gerda. “Tante admir- 
ing nature !” 

“Oh, that's a big Gaard — that yonder,” said Tante, 
correcting herself with a twinkle in her eye. “I wonder 
what the name is, and how many cotters they have, and 
how many children, how many cows up at the Saeter, 
how many goats, how many cheeses they make, how 
many sheep they have; whether Bedstefar and Bedste- 
mor are alive, and whether they have as comfortable 
quarters as our Bedstefar and Bedstemor. Ah, and that 
reminds me, that I am drinking coffee with Bedstemor 
this afternoon. Help me up, Gerda, and don't stand 
staring at that cloud as though you had never seen one 
in your life before.” 

So Tante drank coffee with picturesque old Bedste- 
mor, in the old dower-house of the Gaard. 

The principal dwelling-place of the Gaard had been 
considerably added to in modern times. The old part 
was in the middle, and new wings had been built on 
either side, a whole new story with a slate roof added, 
and a new balcony and porch. So that the Gaard 
proper, in which Mor Inga reigned, was a curious mix- 
ture of the old and the new : the new part being painted 
pink, and the old part keeping its ancient glory intact. 
But Bedstemor's house was untouched by modern hands ; 
in fact, all the houses which formed part of the settle- 
ment were just as they had been for two or three hun- 
dred years. Bedstemor's house was the largest of them 
all. There were about eight or nine others, all black or 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


135 


dark brown, all with their roofs covered with long grass, 
amongst which grew poppies, cornflowers, and forget- 
me-nots. They were grouped together round the court- 
yard, as quaint and picturesque a sight as one might 
see anywhere. The Stabur stood somewhat apart from 
the other buildings, and was raised above the ground by 
tree-trunks which looked like elephants* legs. The Sta- 
bur had a conceited, self-contained look after the man- 
ner of all true Staburs. It seems to be saying all the 
time: “Behold me, I am the Stabur !” The possession 
of a white bell-tower on its grass-grown roof, and of an 
old carved door, encouraged its self-importance, and 
gave it an air of distinction not enjoyed by the other 
houses. Still, they had their tall white chimneys; and 
it is obvious that one cannot have everything in life. 
And some of them also had a more picturesque situation 
than the Stabur ; creeping up the hill, indeed, as though 
they were thinking of climbing up into the woods, but 
had stopped to rest by a mountain-ash, or by a graceful 
birch ; whilst others, mounting higher, came to a stand- 
still at last and were used for storing wood. Then there 
were hay-barns of various sizes and shapes, the most 
characteristic being those with sloping bridges leading 
up to the top-floor. And last, not least, there was the 
great cow-house, forsaken now except for five or six cows 
which had not gone up to the Saeter. And Ingaros, the 
most beautiful cow of all, christened after Mor Inga, 
was sulking partly because she had not gone up to the 
Saeter, but chiefly because she, the belle of the Gaard 
and the authorised leader of the herd, had been deprived 
of her noble collar and bell. Some wretched upstart of 


13G 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


a creature was wearing it, so that she might be sure to 
come home to her calves. 

Ingaros had Tante’s profound sympathy. She visited 
her in the cow-house at milking time, and exchanged a 
few understanding greetings with her. Old Kari was 
milking her and singing a soothing little song, some- 
thing about a saeter-girl who lost all her cows, and she 
danced and they all came back again, and then she sang 
and sang till they ran away again! Tante stood and 
listened delightedly to the clear, sweet voice of the old 
woman. 

“Ja, ja, Kari,” she said, “I believe I have some coffee- 
berries in my pocket. Such a song deserves a good cup 
of coffee.” 

“Stakkar !”* said Karl, smiling with delight. “Thou 
art a kind one, although thou art not Norwegian. Thou 
shalt hear all the tunes I know.” 

* “Stakkar” is a very usual expression of endearment, and 
means “poor dear.” 


CHAPTER III. 


I T WAS a hot afternoon. Ejnar and Gerda had had 
a quarrel over “salix.” Ejnar’s face wore the dy- 
namite expression, and Gerda was white with 
anger. Her glacier eyes looked like the eyes of a 
polar bear, and she was moving her head to and fro in a 
manner which always meant rebellion. On these occa- 
sions she longed for a divorce. 

“Give me a divorce at once !” she cried tragically both 
to Ejnar and Tante. 

“My dear one,” remarked Tante soothingly, “I don’t 
keep divorces ready in my pocket; and you know Ejnar 
never has even a handkerchief in his pocket. You should 
have a divorce at once if we had one handy. Be reason- 
able. Have I ever denied you anything in this world? 
Of course you should have one instantly.” 

Ejnar was silent; but his expression was quite enough 
to blow up all the royal palaces and personages in the 
universe. Tante herself did not feel too amiable that 
afternoon. She had had an angry discussion with the 
Sorenskriver and another man, a Norwegian fur-mer- 
chant, about England ; and she was shocked to hear them 
say things against the English which she knew to be not 
only untrue, but venomously unjust. 

“Why,” she said, flourishing her knitting-needles, 
“even the greatest criminal has some redeeming features. 
And as with criminals, so with countries. But you leave 
England no virtues : not one.” 


138 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


The men shrugged their shoulders. It was so obvious 
to them that England had no virtues. It was so obvious 
to them that they, who had never been to that detestable 
country, knew far more about the character of the people 
than this ridiculous old Danish woman who had spent 
about twenty years amongst the barbarians. Tante was 
ruffled. And Ejnar, being in a disagreeable mood, had 
chimed in too against this much-abused nation. 

“J a,” he said in his quiet way, “it is a barbarous coun- 
try, this England. I know nothing about politics, thank 
Heaven, nothing about wars and so forth. But this I 
can tell you : that England is the only country which re- 
fused to exchange botanical specimens with our Botani- 
cal Museum. The barbarian director wrote a rude let- 
ter.” 

“Eve told you a dozen times, Ejnar, that it was all 
probably owing to Red Tape,” replied Tante angrily. 
She could have shaken Ejnar. 

“And pray what is this Red Tape ?” asked the Soren- 
skriver contemptuously. 

“It is an invisible thread which no one has been able 
to cut, so far,” said Tante. “Everyone knows it is 
there and deplores its presence. If it could once be cut, 
it would shrivel away, and one of England’s dangers 
would be gone.” 

“Then you admit she has dangers?” asked the fur- 
merchant, triumphantly rubbing his hands. 

“Ja, ja,” said Tante Knudsgaard; “but the greatest 
of them is Red Tape. She suffers from it in everything ; 
both in war and in peace. But she will overcome all her 
difficulties, and emerge.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


139 


“Never, never !” said the Sorenskriver and fur-mer- 
chant joyfully together. “Her day is gone.” 

“Then her twilight and her night will be like the glo- 
rious midnight sunlight of your north,” said Tante, 
turning to the fur-merchant who came from the north. 

“Pyt!” said the fur-merchant scornfully, and went 
away. 

“Sniksnak !” said the Sorenskriver impatiently. 

Tante made no reply, but went on knitting; and in a 
few minutes finished a sock, which she spread on her 
knee, and then added it to a great pile beside her on the 
seat of the courtyard verandah, where everyone was 
awaiting the arrival of the letters. 

“That makes twelve pair for those brave English sol- 
diers,” she said, half to herself. And the Sorenskriver 
moved nearer to the horrid spectacle, attracted to the 
spot against his own wishes. Tante laughed silently; 
but, all the same, she was ruffled. Everyone was more or 
less cross. 

Solli was worried .about the crops, for there had been 
no rain for a long time, and both corn and potatoes 
threatened to fail. Also, there was a shortage of water, 
and that made him anxious about fire. Also, Bedstefar 
was more ailing than usual, and the doctor had been sent 
for. Bedstemor came over from her house, sat near 
Tante, and grumbled a little because Bedstefar was so 
obstinate about the doctor. But she cheered up when a 
Swedish lady, an artist, one of the guests, praised her 
quaint, old-fashioned head-gear, and wanted to take a 
photograph of her pretty old face. 

“Ah,” said Bedstemor, “many people have wanted to 
take a picture of me.” 


140 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


And then everyone laughed, and said : 

“Ja, Bedstemor, we can well believe it!” 

That seemed to put everyone in better spirits again; 
and soon beautiful Ragnhild came out of the kitchen 
with a bundle of letters and papers, and was the centre 
of an eager circle. Ejnar stood apart, near the Stabur, 
not being concerned with human affairs. But Ragnhild 
had a letter even for him, and took it to him herself. She 
and all the peasants had a great respect for scholarship. 

“There is a letter for the professor. Will he care to 
have it?” she said gently. 

She handed it to him in her own charming way, and 
even Ejnar was pleased ; for Ragnhild was the object of 
great admiration amongst the men, although she kept 
them at a distance. And all the women, too, admired 
her, and were glad when she came amongst them. Tante 
gave her a good hug when she dropped several letters 
and papers into her lap, and got in return an affectionate 
pat of approval on the back. 

“Thou hast more than thy share of letters to-day,” she 
said. “I shall give thee none to-morrow.” 

“I don’t want any more !” cried Tante, who had just 
glanced at one of her letters. “Only think, Ragnhild, 
some dear friends of mine are coming here. I should 
like to dance the Hailing dance. Help me up, kjaere. 
I want to dance over to the Botaniker. No use calling 
to him. He never hears human sounds.” 

Then gaily the pretty girl and the old Danish woman 
went arm in arm to the Stabur, near which Ejnar and 
Gerda were standing, their heads buried in a letter. 
They looked up when they saw her and cried : 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


141 


“Such news — such news ! It has come from America. 
She will bring it to us at once. We have only to write 
and say where we are.” 

“And I, too, have something coming from America,” 
cried Tante. “My Clifford and his boy !” 

“Only think, Tante, that valuable botanical parcel at 
last!” cried Gerda wildly. 

“Only think, my poor icebergs home again!” cried 
Tante, putting her arm round each of them. “What 
could be more delightful! Your dried-up flowers and 
my frozen up human beings ! Sapristi ! Let us all be 
friends again and have some aqua vitae. I feel at peace 
even with that wretched old magistrate !” 

“Oh, Gerda,” said Ejnar, “what joys are before us. 
Just think of it. The Mariposa lilies and the Romney 
poppy at last !” 

When they had all calmed down a little, Tante read 
Katharine FrenshanPs letter, and learned that she 
wished to bring the botanical parcel as soon as she knew 
whether Herr and Frau Ebbesen could receive her. She 
had heard from Professor Thornton that they were per- 
haps going to Norway. If they had already gone, she 
could just as easily come there. She added : 

“It is curious that I, who knew nothing about Pro- 
fessor Thornton a few weeks ago should all the time 
have been in communication with the nephew and niece 
of his dear Danish friend.” 

“Ja,” said Tante, “waves — waves — wireless telegraphy 
as always.” 

There was a sentence in Clifford’s letter which struck 
Tante as being a remarkable thing for him to have writ- 
ten. 


142 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“I have become acquainted with a Miss Frensham,” he 
wrote, “to whom I have given a letter of introduction to 
you: though she will scarcely need it, being, as she is, 
on a botanical errand to Ejnar and Gerda, and therefore 
to you. But I desired not to be left out in the cold 
where she is concerned.” 

“Well,” reflected Tante, “there is a remarkable thing 
for an iceberg to say.” 

And she read the sentence several times in order to 
make sure that she had caught the meaning. The rest 
of the letter ran thus : 

Deab Old Knutty, — Alan and I are coming back, and we 
shall come and find you somewhere and somehow. We have not 
been happy together. There is a shadow between us — that 
shadow which I always feared — and he has something against 
me in his young heart which makes easy and close companion- 
ship impossible. We have both suffered. There was a man of my 
own age with his son, a boy of Alan’s age, on board. I used to 
look at them with hungry eyes. They had such a good under- 
standing between them. There were no shadows there. He was 
a great traveler, an ornithologist. And his boy thought he was 
the finest hero on earth and worshipped him. Ah, I would not 
wish that ; but I would only ask that Alan should believe in me 
again, as in the old days before — before Marianne’s death. It 
will be good to hear your voice again, even if you do scold me 
for throwing over Japan. But, under present conditions, it is 
waste of money and waste of heart-fibre. Alan will be happier 
without me. Perhaps you won’t scold me after all, Knutty. 
You are such a wise old Knutty. And I still think you were 
wise to send us in spite of everything. 

“Of course I was wise to send you, my poor Clifford,” 
Knutty said, as she read the letter over and over again 
in the quiet of her beautiful big bedroom, with its lovely 
views of the valley, the wood, and the grass-roofed 
houses. “Of course I was wise to send you — even if you 
came back the next moment. That doesn't matter. It is 
the starting-off which counts. My poor boy, I won't 
scold you. My good, gentle-hearted Clifford. You 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


143 


ought to have had a heart as tough as Knutt/s. You 
would not have wanted to gnaw it then. No temptation 
then. My poor boy.” 

She rubbed two or three tears away from her cheeks, 
and tapped the floor impatiently with her foot. 

“Bah !” she said, “that Marianne, I never could bear 
her !” 

And then something prompted her to turn once more 
to his letter, and she read the words : “But I desired not 
to be left out in the cold where she is concerned.” A 
faint smile came over Knutty’s face. It disappeared, 
came again, stayed, deepened and deepened. 

By St. Olaf, I believe I see daylight !” she cried. 


CHAPTER IV. 


S O KATHARINE started off to Norway, taking 
the boat from the London docks. By a curious 
chance Mrs. Stanhope was on board, too; and 
the presence of this bigot, Marianne’s friend, 
Clifford Thornton’s enemy, stirred Katharine to her 
depths. They had bowed stiffly, and then had contented 
themselves with glaring at each other. 

It was a rough passage, and they were the only two 
women who did not retreat to their cabins. They sat 
side by side, in silence, in a sheltered part of the boat, 
having no choice to go elsewhere. 

But although no words were spoken between them, an 
active warfare went on unceasingly : encounter after en- 
counter, and the victory to neither. 

The voyage came to an end, Christiania was reached, 
and the two women went, each her own way ; each thank- 
ful to be free of the other. 

But Mrs. Stanhope without knowing it, had sown 
fresh seeds of love and protection in Katharine’s heart 
for Clifford Thornton. More than ever her thoughts 
turned to him. More than ever she found herself weav- 
ing a fancy fabric of happiness and love. Then she rent 
it in pieces and and began it over again. She had to 
begin it again each time she had destroyed it, and each 
time some new beauty was added. 

And thus busy with her work of destroying and restor- 
ing, the train bore her past beautiful Lake Mjosen, the 
biggest lake in Norway, and into the Gudbrandsdal, 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


145 


where she at once made the acquaintance of the river 
Laagen, the glacier river which Knutty, Ejnar and Ger- 
da were learning to love in their upland-Gaard. She 
thought of them as old friends. It seemed to be quite 
natural that she was coming to them. She longed to see 
Knutty. She know that she would not have one min- 
ute’s shyness with Clifford’s old Dane. 

But she had not any idea how eagerly she was awaited. 
Tante was most impatient to see her, and kept on mur- 
muring to herself : “By St. Olaf, I see daylight through 
a leper’s squint.” And when asked to explain these mys- 
terious words, she only said : 

“Keep to your own department, botanists. Don’t in- 
terfere with the section marked human nature.” 

And Ejnar and Gerda were wild with delight, and 
even spoke soft words together about “salix.” Of course 
they only looked upon Katharine as the bringer of the 
parcel : having no value in herself, being, as it were, only 
a base instrument. It made no difference to them 
whether she was fair or dark, tall or short, agreeable or 
disagreeable, electric or soporific, with an attractive aura 
or an antipathetic personality. 

“What on earth does it matter so long as she brings 
the parcel safely?” said Ejnar, in answer to Tante’s 
repeated, “I wonder whether.” 

“That sort of thing matters very much to people who 
are alive,” replied Tante sternly. “Of course to people 
who are prematurely dead, like botanists, nothing mat- 
ters except the parcel. My beloved Ejnar, I am de- 
lighted to see you so happy ; but I must entreat you not 
to sing. You are frightening the horse ; he looked round 
then to see whether an ostrich was driving him. And 


146 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


you observe we are on the most dangerous part of the 
cliff. Don’t let us have an accident until we have 
embraced the parcel and received the bringer of it with 
indulgence. And do remember to thank her, Gerda. 
And don’t let Ejnar ask for the parcel the minute he sees 
her. Let us show the English barbarian woman that 
we know how to behave. Ah, here we are on the level. 
Now, Ejnar, you can sing as much as you please. What 
a curious voice — not human ! The sort of voice you would 
expect a decaying plant to have. But how happy you 
must be. You don’t often sing, I think.” 

“J a, I am very happy,” said Ejnar, smiling radiantly. 
“I only sang once before in my life, after Gerda accepted 
me, when I was alone in the woods.” 

“A good thing she didn’t hear you, or else she might 
have changed her mind,” remarked Tante. 

“Dear ones, dear ones,” said Gerda, “here is the train. 
Oh, Ejnar, how I hope we shall not quarrel over the par- 
cel. I know we shall, though.” 

They hurried out of the carriage, all of them in a 
state of great excitement, and Tante, very red and hot, 
but her face beaming with kindness and pleasant ex- 
pectancy. She looked up and saw Katharine standing at 
the window. 

“That is Miss Frensham,” she said, in her positive 
way. 

“How do you know ?” said Gerda and Ejnar. “You’ve 
never seen her.” 

“Instinct, stupid ones !” answered Knutty breathless- 
ly. “Of course it is Miss Frensham. Come along now, 
and remember to say nothing about the parcel, Ejnar.” 

Then she pressed forward, and just as Katharine was 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


147 


stepping out of the train, she put out her hand and said : 
“Welcome, Miss Frensham. I am Froken Knudsgaard, 
and these are my botanists — your friends. We are so 
glad to see you” 

“Ja, ja !” cried Ejnar and Gerda. 

“And I to see you,” Katharine said, in her own genial 
way. “It is like coming to see old friends. Ah, and I 
have the parcel quite safely here in my little travelling 
box. I put it there so that there might not be one mo- 
ment’s delay. For, of course, you must be feeling im- 
patient. I am sure I should.” 

With those simple but magic words Katharine imme- 
diately won her way into the botanical hearts of the 
botanists; and Knutty, looking at her dear frank face 
and delightful appearance, felt a glow of pleasure such 
as she had not been conscious of for many long years. 

Then the clever Norwegian ponies, those yellow little 
fellows, full of mountain-wisdom and resource, drew the 
carriage slowly up the winding road which led to the 
Solli Gaard. Like all true Norwegians, they did exactly 
what they wished: rested when they wished, and went 
on when they wished : went very near the edge when they 
felt so inclined, or paused to drink of the brook running 
into the hollow tree-trunk placed there for their benefit. 
As Knutty said, they allowed plenty of time to look at 
the graceful birches which crept up from the valley, 
lined the hill-side, were shimmering in the sunlight, 
trembling in the breezes, and sending out their own de- 
licious fragrance laden with subtle sweetness. 

“Ja, ja,” said Knutty, “the birches are at their best 
to-day, to welcome the Englishwoman to beautiful Nor- 
way !” 


CHAPTER Y. 


T HE contents of the parcel exceeded the bot- 
anists’ wildest expectations. They were 
radiantly happy over it, and delighted with 
Katharine. She had stamped herself on 
their minds as a woman of sense, who had understood 
that the parcel had been the entity and herself the non- 
entity. 

“Obviously a person of discernment,” Ejnar remarked 
several times to Tante, who laughed secretly when she 
observed that the impersonal botanist was beginning to 
show distinct signs of human appreciation as well. He 
even left his study once or twice, and came to sit with 
the ladies on the balcony, bringing his long pipe with 
him. He did not speak much, of course, and when he 
did he never touched on human affairs. But Katharine 
had seen these flowers, and in an unscientific but vivid 
way she could tell him a little about them, and a great 
deal about the botanists who had sent the precious gift. 
Gerda and he listened with rapt attention while she 
described to them the Colorado botanists’ herbarium. 
She told them that they were rich, but that they did not 
care for a grand house. They lived in a small “frame 
house,” and had built a princely herbarium, which, to- 
gether with their wonderful botanic garden, was the 
chief feature of their property. 

“They do not care about human grandeur,” Katharine 
said, in conclusion. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


149 


“That is as it ought to be,” exclaimed Ejnar and Ger- 
da approvingly. 

“All the same,” remarked Tante, “I would prefer to 
inhabit that herbarium, and put the stupid dried plants 
in the cottage. But then I know I have a base human 
soul. Always have had — isn't it so, dear ones ?” 

“Yes, yes,” said Ejnar and Gerda. “And you've 
always liked comfort.” 

“Yes,” replied Tante — “good English comfort. Give 
me good English comfort and mange tak !* Let me be 
base and comfortable, like my darling, much-abused 
English people.” 

“Are you really so fond of them, Froken Knuds- 
gaard?” Katharine said warmly; for everyone feels a 
glow of pleasure at hearing one's country praised in a 
foreign land. 

“Ja, I love them,” Knutty replied, smiling at her; 
“and I spend half my time in fighting their battles. 
Even here I have several deadly conflicts every day with 
a Norwegian magistrate and a fur-merchant from the 
north. But now you've come, you can defend your own 
country much better than I can. But I shall always be 
delighted to help !” 

“Ja, she loves them,” said Gerda. “And that English- 
man of hers is the only person for whom she cares in the 
whole world. Ejnar and I have been jealous of that 
Englishman ever since I can remember.” 

“I have told you hundreds of times that it is absurd to 
be jealous of an iceberg,” Knutty said, with a twinkle in 
her eye. “You know, Miss Frensham, they are speaking 


Mange tak , many thanks. 


150 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


of my dear Clifford Thornton, whom Fve known and 
loved ever since he was seven years old. There is no one 
like him on earth " 

" Ale ,” said Gerda, “if she begins to talk to yon about 
her Englishman, all is lost. Don't encourage her, 
Froken. Take my advice. Tell us something more 
about the Colorado botanists and their garden. More- 
over the Englishman is soon coming himself. That will 
make her happy." 

“He is coming” Katharine said eagerly, turning to 
Tante ; he is coming here ?” 

“Yes," said Tante, nodding at her. 

And the quick old Dane glanced at her and saw how 
the light of a great happiness had come into her eyes. 

“Yes," Tante said; “he has given up the journey to 
Japan, and I suppose he and his hoy will be here in a 
week or so." 

“In a week or so?" Katharine repeated, as though she 
could scarcely believe it. 

Then, with a gaiety which delighted them all, she 
turned impulsively to the botanists and continued telling 
them all the details she could remember of that wonder- 
ful garden and the interesting collection of cactuses, and 
the different kinds of pepper-trees. And Gerda and 
Ejnar, entranced, kept on saying: 

“Ja, and what more ?" And Tante kept on thinking : 

“Surely I see daylight ! But, good Heavens, what can 
we do to get rid of these botanists ? Wretched creatures ! 
Why don't they go back to their study provided so 
thoughtfully by me? And what a darling she is, and 
how delightful to look upon, and with a fine tempera- 
ment. Simple and easy as a child. Built on a big scale. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


151 


mind and body. Like the Gaard itself. Ja, ja. And 
then to think of that Marianne! Ak, what a brute I 
am ! Never mind. Let me remain a brute ! Oh, those 
botanists! If only they would go to their study and 
quarrel about the Maripose lily, or cactuses, or salix, or 
something. And just look at Ejnar! He is becoming 
human. He is leaving the vegetable and entering the 
animal kingdom. By St. Olaf, he has picked up her 
handkerchief ! Ah, and here is Ragnhild coming to the 
Stabur to ring the bell for dinner. NS, after dinner, we 
can have a talk about my Clifford.” 

So after dinner Tante took entire possession of Kath- 
arine, but much against the botanists’ wishes. And Ger- 
da said privately: 

“Well, at least, don’t bore her by talking about your 
Englishman all the time. You yourself saw how glad 
she was to get away from a subject which could not pos- 
sibly interest her, and to continue to talk to us about 
Arizona and Colorado.” 

In answer Tante had a mysterious attack of laughter, 
and gave Gerda a specially affectionate hug ; and, having 
assured her that she would use moderation, walked off 
with Katharine to show her, so she said, the principal 
sights of the Gaard, and to introduce her to some of her 
intimate friends, all of whom were interested in the 
arrival of the Englishwoman, the first English person 
they had ever seen. Knutty was proud that Katharine 
had such a fine appearance and such a charming way 
with everyone. The Sollis, Johann himself, and Mor 
Inga, in their grave, reserved fashion, were kindly to 
her; and Karl, a most unemotional creature, was quite 
excited when she spoke some German to him. Bedste- 


152 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


mor arrived on the scene, having heard that an English 
guest had come to the Gaard; and when Katharine was 
presented to her, she greeted her with great dignity, and 
said to Tante: 

“She is nice looking, this Englishwoman. But thou 
should’st have seen me when I was young.” 

This was translated to Katharine, who said to Tante : 

“Tell her that I can see her in my mind’s eye as a 
beautiful young girl; but she has not forgotten how to 
be beautiful in her old age.” 

Bedstemor was gratified, patted her on the back, and 
told her that she might come one day and drink coffee 
with her and see her wedding-cap. 

Then she was introduced to old Kari, whom they 
passed on their way to Tante’s favourite resting-place, 
an old black bam near a group of mountain ashes. Kari 
was standing outside the great cow-house ; she looked at 
Katharine critically, seemed to approve of her, and said : 

“She is nice looking and strong too. She could do a 
good day’s work in the fields. And how many children 
has she got?” 

“Well, I suppose she has not any,” laughed wicked 
old Tante. “She is not married.” 

“Perhaps she will find a husband here,” said Kari re- 
flectively. 

“Perhaps she will,” laughed Tante ; and she was pass- 
ing on, when Kari came a little nearer to her, and said 
mysteriously : 

“If thou wilt come into the cow-house to-morrow I 
think I can tell thee something thou wilt like to hear — 
about the Huldre,* the beautiful long-tailed one — but 

* The general name for “mountain people.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


153 


thou must come alone. And I will sing to thee again 
very willingly, for thou art a kind one. And to-morrow 
Mette makes Fladbrod* If thou dost wish to see her 
make the Fladbrod, thou shalt most certainly. Ja, and 
Mette can sing too. Thou shalt hear her also.” 

Then she nodded and disappeared into the cow-house. 
Tante and Katharine paused for a moment to look at 
the picturesque winter-house of the seventy cows, and 
its long, grass-grown roof, its two bridges leading up to 
the top floor, where some of the hay was stored, and its 
most curious gap in the centre of the upper-floor, 
through which one could see enclosed in a great oblong 
frame the valley below, the rivers and the distant moun- 
tains. Tante pointed out this beautiful picture to Kath- 
arine and said: 

“You know, I really enjoy Nature very much, al- 
though I pretend not to do so just to tease Ejnar and 
Gerda. Ah, they are dears, both of them. It was good 
of you to come and bring them their parcel. You do not 
know how eagerly you have been looked for — by them 
and by me. Of course they wanted their parcel; but I 
had another reason for being eager to receive you. May 
a wicked old woman tell you something some day ?” 

“Tell me now,” Katharine said, turning to her. 

“Well,” said Tante recklessly, “it may be only an old 
woman’s fancy ; but he said in his letter that you did not 
really need a letter of introduction to me, since you were 
coming to see Ejnar and Gerda, and therefore me. But 
he felt that he could not be left out in the cold where 
you were concerned.” 

*A thin kind of bread, like Passover cake. 


154 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Did he say that?” asked Katharine, with a tremor 
in her voice. 

“Yes,” answered Tante; and they strolled on together 
in silence until they came to the hay-barn on the hill- 
side, near the mountain-ashes, Tante’s terminus. There 
they sat, still in silence, but with their hearts and 
thoughts charged with the remembrance of Clifford 
Thornton. It was a long silence, probably the longest 
which Knutty had ever endured without impatience ; for 
an instinctive comradeship had sprung up between her 
and this Englishwoman in whose eyes the light of love 
had come when Clifford Thornton’s name was spoken. 
They were both glad to be together, and they knew it. 
At last Knutty said: 

“My dear, since we are both thinking of him all the 
time, shall we not speak of him ?” 

And Katharine looked up, and answered simply: 

“Yes, let us speak of him.” 

So they spoke of him: Knutty with warm affection 
and pity; Katharine with sympathetic interest. That 
was all. She spoke of him as one traveller might speak 
of another traveller, both of them having met on some 
mountain-path in a distant land, spoken some words of 
greeting, and then passed on. That was all the personal 
part she thought she put into it. 

But Knutty listened, and heard distinct unspoken 
words. 


CHAPTER VI. 

K ATHARINE spoke a fair amount of German, 
and some of the guests at the Gaard spoke a 
little English. The fur-merchant from Trom- 
so spoke English well ; but he scorned at first 
to show any sign of friendliness to anyone from such an 
abominable country; and the Sorenskriver was consist- 
ently careful not to be betrayed into the most primitive 
form of politeness to this Englishwoman. He knew, of 
course, that she spoke and understood German; and he 
went out of his way on several occasions to make in his 
aggressive voice disparaging remarks about England, 
using for this purpose the language of Germany. At 
first Katharine took no notice ; but after a day or two of 
quiet forbearance she said to him at dinner, fearlessly 
but politely: 

“Herr Sorenskriver, you insult my country every time 
we sit down to dinner. I am sure you do not intend to 
insult me personally. But you see, Englishwomen love 
their country passionately ; although they may know and 
share its faults. May I ask you to use the Norwegian 
language, which I do not understand, when you feel par- 
ticularly insulting? If, however, you want to discuss 
England with me, then let us speak German together; 
and I will tell you all I know, and listen to all you have 
to say. That is quite another matter. Then you shall 
say all you have to say against us; and I will answer 


156 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


you if I can, and bear with your criticisms if I cannot.” 
Her words were so simple, her manner was so direct, 
and her own temperamental charm was so irresistible 
that England, personified in her, went up twenty-five per 
cent, in everyone’s estimation. There was quite a stir 
amongst the guests ; they all left off eating their beloved 
cloudberries (multebaer), of which the Norwegians 
think so much, and turned expectantly to the Soren- 
skriver. The gruff old Norwegian did something unex- 
pected, both to himself and the whole company. 

“Ah,” he said, “you carry your flag better than I carry 
mine, Froken. You are right and I am wrong.” 

Then he lifted his half -filled glass and turned to her 
with an almost shy smile on his face. 

“Skaal!”* he said. 

“Skaal!” she answered, raising her glass too, and 
smiling at him. 

“Bravo — skaal to them both !” said everyone with one 
accord; and no one was surprised afterwards to see the 
Englishwoman and the Sorenskriver strolling off to- 
gether in the direction of the foss in the birch-woods 
above the Gaard. 

Katharine had conquered him, and the fur-merchant 
was the next person to capitulate. He was heard saying 
to the Swedish professor that, when all was said and 
done, the English were people of spirit, and whatever 
their politics might be, they were honourable people to 
trade with. Ejnar, too, forgot for the moment about 
the barbarian authorities at Kew Gardens, and gave such 
remarkable signs of wanting Katharine’s companionship, 
not at all from botanical reasons, that Gerda began to 


Skaal! — Your health. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


157 


complain to Tante that he was neglecting his work and 
not taking the least interest in the Romney poppy. And 
once he came back from a short expedition which he 
himself had planned, leaving poor Gerda to look for the 
little rare plant which was the object of the expedition. 
He said he was tired and wanted to go home; and he 
fetched his long pipe and established himself in a corner 
of the verandah where Tante and Katharine were sit- 
ting. Gerda came back angry and wanted a divorce ; but 
Tante laughed and said to her: 

“Don’t be angry with him. It is only an aberration. 
It won’t do you or him any harm. He will soon be ready 
to quarrel with you over the Romney poppy. And you 
cannot possibly be angry with her. She knows nothing 
about it. Everyone likes her; she wins everyone. It is 
her nature; her temperament; her aura. If she has 
won the Sorenskriver, she could win the most ferocious 
Trold ever heard of in Norwegian lore. Don’t be angry 
with anybody. I think I ought to be the one to be angry. 
He always interrupts our conversations. And you al- 
ways want her when you can get her. Everybody wants 
her. Even Bedstemor likes to talk with her. I can 
scarcely get a word in. Poor old Tante.” 

“You wicked old woman, you were talking to her for 
hours yesterday,” said Gerda, laughing. 

“NS,” said Tante, “yesterday is not to-day.” 

“I cannot think what you want to talk to her about,” 
said Gerda. 

“There are other subjects besides the Totanik,’ ” re- 
marked Tante sternly. “And, after all, you are both 
strangers,” said Gerda. 

“Strangers very often have a great deal to say to each 


158 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


other / 5 answered Tante. “Ah, and there she comes. 
Now I insist on yon dragging your wretched Ejnar off 
to your study and keeping him there. Have a quarrel. 
I mean a real botanical quarrel. Do, kjaere. You have 
not had one for quite two days. Talk about salix. That 
is always a safe subject for a quarrel. And you need 
not be afraid that I will bore the barbarian-woman. I 
will speak only of subjects which interest her . 55 

No, Katharine was not bored. She drifted to Tante 
on every possible occasion ; and they spoke on many dif- 
ferent subjects, but always ended with Clifford Thorn- 
ton. It was curious how he came into everything. If 
they began about the customs of the peasants, they fin- 
ished up with Clifford and his boy. If they started off 
with Bedstefar’s illness, which was becoming more and 
more serious, they ended with Clifford Thornton. If 
they spoke of England, it was natural enough that they 
should speak of Tante’s Englishman. If they spoke of 
America, it was natural enough that Clifford and his 
boy should slip into the conversation. And if they spoke 
of Scandinavia, and especially of little Denmark, where 
he and his boy would soon be arriving, it was natural 
enough to refer to the two travellers now on their way 
home to Europe. 

“Ja, ja . 55 said Tante, “he always loved the North. I 
who taught him, took care about that. And his father 
before him had loved the North. That was why I was 
chosen to be the little lad 5 s governess; because I was a 
Dane — and not a bad-looking one either in those days, 
let me tell you! Yes, I was chosen out of about ten 
Englishwomen. I shall never forget that day . 55 

“Tell me about it , 55 Katharine said eagerly; and the 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


159 


old Danish woman, nothing loth, pnt down her knitting 
and gazed dreamily out on the great valley below. It 
was about six in the afternoon. All the other guests had 
finished their coffee and left the balcony, and Katharine 
and Tante were in sole possession. There were no 
sounds except the never-ceasing roar of the foss in the 
Yinstra Valley. 

“It was many years ago,” Tante said, “about thirty- 
eight, I think. He was seven years old when I was 
called to look after him. I journeyed to a desolate house 
in the country, in Surrey, and waited in a dismal draw- 
ing-room with several other ladies, who were all on the 
same errand. A tall, stern-looking man came into the 
room, greeted us courteously, but scanned us closely. 
And then he said : ‘And which is the Danish lady ?’ And 
I said : ‘I am the Dane/ And he said : ‘Do you 
speak English very badly V And I said: ‘No, I speak it 
remarkably well/ And he smiled and said : ‘Ah, you're 
a true Dane, I see. You have a good opinion of your 
powers/ And I said: ‘Yes, of course I have/ Then I 
went with him alone into his study, another depressing 
room, and we had an interview of about an hour. I saw 
he loved the North. It was a passion with him. He 
was a lonely impersonal sort of creature; but his face 
lit up when he spoke of the North. He asked me to wait 
whilst he spoke with the other ladies. Lunch was served 
in the dining-room ; and those of us who were not being 
interviewed tried to enjoy an excellent meal. But every- 
one was anxious, for the salary was exceptionally high, 
indeed princely. When all the interviewing was over, 
he did a curious thing ; but I thought it considerate and 
kind to the little person for whose care he was providing. 


160 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


He went upstairs and brought down to us a desolate- 
looking little boy, and said: 

“ ‘Clifford, my little son, one of these ladies is going to 
be good enough to come and take care of you. I wonder 
which is the one you would like best of all / 99 

“The little fellow shrank back, for he was evidently 
shy; but he looked up into his father’s stern face, and 
knew that he had to make an answer. Then very shyly 
he glanced round, and his eye rested on me : 

“ ‘That one, father/ ” he said, almost in a whisper. 

“So that was how I came to be his governess. He 
knew what he wanted when he chose me. I have always 
wished that he could have known just as cleverly what 
he wanted when he chose his wife — that poor Marianne.” 

And here Tante paused, and gave that sort of pious 
regulation-sigh which we are always supposed to offer 
to the memory of all dead people, good, bad, or indif- 
ferent. 

Katharine waited impatiently. She longed to know 
something about that dead wife. She longed to know 
something of Clifford’s childhood, of his youth, his early 
career — but chiefly of that dead wife: whether he had 
loved her, whether she had loved him. She did not try 
to conceal her eagerness. She bent forward and touched 
Tante’s hands. 

“Tell me about her,” she said. “I have only heard 
what Mrs. Stanhope said of her.” 

“Ah,” said Knutty, “she was her friend. If you have 
only heard what Mrs. Stanhope said, you have heard 
only unjust things about my Clifford.” 

“Yes,” replied Katharine, “and believed them to be 
impossible and told her so.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


161 


“My dear,” said Knutty warmly, “you have a mind 
that understands. Well, about this Marianne. She has 
gone her way, and I suppose custom demands that one 
should speak of her respectfully. But I cannot help 
saying that she had a Billingsgate temperament. That 
was the whole trouble. She had a great deal of beauty, 
and something of a heart. Indeed, she was not bad- 
hearted. I always wished she had been a downright 
devil; for then my poor Clifford would have known 
how to decide on a definite course of action. Indeed, I 
own that I often wished she would run away with an- 
other man. But of course he would have forgiven her. 
Bah ! It was so like her not to run away. Excuse me, 
my dear. But I have never learnt not to be impatient, 
even with her memory; for she preyed on his kindness 
and his great sense of chivalry. I don't know where she 
originally came from, and whether it was her original 
entourage which gave her the Billingsgate temperament, 
or whether it was just her natural possession indepen- 
dent of surroundings. I did not see her until he had 
married her. When I saw her I knew of course that it 
was her physical charm with which he had fallen in love. 
It could not have been her mind. She had none.” 

Knutty paused a moment, took off her spectacles to 
clean them, and then continued : 

“He married her in Berlin, and took her to Aberyst- 
with College, where he was professor of chemistry for 
two years. Alan was bom there. Then his father died 
and he gave up teaching. He settled down at ‘Falun/ 
his country-house, and devoted himself to research- 
work : as far as she would let him. But she was jealous 
of his work ; and I believe did her best to thwart it. I 


162 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


saw that as the time went on. He used to come over to 
Denmark partly to see me, and partly on his way to 
Sweden, which is a grand hunting-ground for mineral- 
ogists. He had always been interested in mineralogy; 
indeed, as a child he played with minerals as most chil- 
dren play with soldiers. Well, one morning he walked 
into my room unexpectedly and said : ‘Knutty, I came 
to tell you I’ve discovered a new mineral. You know 
I’ve had a lot of disappointments over them; but this 
one has not cheated me. He is a new fellow beyond all 
doubt. And I felt I must have someone to he glad with 
me! That was all he said; but there was something so 
pathetic about his obvious need of sympathy that I felt 
sure things were not going well with him at home. 
When I went over to stay with them I understood. I 
had not been three days at ‘Falun’ before I discovered 
that Marianne had this unfortunate temperament, the 
very worst in the world for his peculiar sensitiveness 
and his curiously-delicate brain. I knew his brain well. 
As a child, if not harassed, he could do wonders at his 
studies. But he needed an atmosphere of peace, in 
which to use his mental machinery successfully. I learnt 
to know this, and I gave him peace, dear little chap, 
and spared him most of the petty tyrannies which the 
grown-up impose on youngsters. But Marianne could 
give him no peace. Peace was not in her; nor did she 
wish for it ; nor could she understand that anyone wished 
for it. Life to her meant scenes : scenes over anything 
and everything. Day after day I saw the delicate bal- 
ance of his brain, so necessary for the success of his in- 
vestigations, cruelly disturbed. But to be just to Mari- 
anne, she did not know. And if she had been told she 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


163 


would not have understood. I tried to hint at it once 
or twice; and I might as well have spoken in the Tim- 
buctoo original dialect. I did not even offend her. She 
did not even understand that much of this foreign lan- 
guage. It was all hopeless. Her aura was impossible. 
So I said Tarvel/ and I never went to stay with them 
again for any length of time. But occasionally I went 
for a day or two to please him. I saw as time went on 
that he was getting some comfort out of the boy. That 
was a comfort to me. But I also saw that the brilliant 
promises of his early manhood were being unfulfilled. I 
heard that his scientific friends wondered and mourned. 
They did not know the disadvantages with which he had 
to cope. Probably they would not have allowed them- 
selves to be thus harassed. But he was not they, and 
they were not he. And, after all, a man can only be him- 
self. And if he is born with a heart as well as a brain, 
and with an almost excessive chivalry for the feelings of 
other people, then he is terribly at the mercy of his sur- 
roundings. 

“Yes,” she repeated, “at the mercy of his surround- 
ings. And poor Marianne had no mercy on him : none.” 

“But if she had no understanding, then it was not that 
she was unmerciful, but only ignorant,” Katharine said 
gently. 

“Yes, yes, but it works out the same,” Tante answered. 

“Not quite,” Katharine replied. “It makes one think 
more mercifully of her.” 

“Why, that is precisely the sort of thing he says!” 
Knutty exclaimed. 

“Is it?” said Katharine, flushing up to her very 


164 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


eyes. And at that moment there came a sound of sweet 
melancholy music from the hillside. 

“That is Gerda,” whispered Tante. “That is one of 
her favourite Swedish songs — how sweet and melancholy 
it is.” 

They listened, arrested and entranced. The stillness 
of the evening and the pureness of the air made a silent 
accompaniment to Gerda’s beautiful voice. 



And the wail of despair at the end of the verse was 
almost heartrending. 

They listened until the sad strains had died away, and 
then Tante softly translated the words : 

“High on the dome of Heaven shine the bright stars ; 

“The lover whom I love so well, I shall reach him 
never. 

“Ah me, ah me ! . . . . 

She turned impulsively to Katharine. 



KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


165 


“But that is not for you, not for . you,” she said. 
“You will reach him, I know you will reach him — I feel 
it. I want you to reach him — something or other tells 
me that it must and will be so — that ” 

The door of the balcony opened hastily, and Ragnhild 
came to Tante and held out both her hands to help 
her up. 

“Two Englishmen have come and are asking for thee,” 
she said. 

“Men du milde Himmel !”* cried Tante. “My icebergs 
of course!” 

She almost ran to the hall, where she found Clifford 
and Alan standing together like the two forlorn crea- 
tures that they were. 

‘‘Velkommen, velkommen !” she cried. “I don’t know 
where you’ve come from, whether from the bottom of the 
sea or the top of the air ! Nor how you’ve got here ! 
But velkommen, velkommen!” 

Their faces brightened up when they saw her and 
heard her cheery voice with its slight foreign accent. 

“Oh, Knutty, it is good to see you again,” the man 
said. 

“Yes, by Jove, it is ripping,” the boy said. 

“Come out into the balcony, dear ones,” she said, 
taking them by the hand as she would have taken two 
children. “And I’ll inquire about your rooms and your 
food. You look like tired and hungry ghosts.” 

Katharine was bending over the balcony, looking down 
fixedly at those wonderful rivers, and with the sound 
and words of that sad song echoing in her ears and 
heart. Then she turned round and saw them both ; saw 

* Danish expression, “But Thou, mild Heaven.” 


166 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


the look of shy pleasure on the boy’s face, and of glad- 
ness on the man’s. The music died away, hushed by the 
gladness of her own heart. 

“Velkommen!” she said, coming forward to greet 
them in her own frank way. “I’ve learnt that much 
Norwegian, you seel” 


CHAPTER VII. 


K NUTTY was overjoyed at the return of her ice- 
bergs, and it was pathetic to see how glad 
they were to be with her again. She thought 
that, on the whole, they were the better for 
their journey ; but when she questioned Clifford he told 
her that Alan had not cared to be with him. 

“He is much happier since he has returned and is not 
alone with me/’ Clifford said. 

“And you?” asked Knutty. 

“I am much happier too, Knutty,” he said thought- 
fully. 

And he looked in the direction of the foss where 
Katharine had just gone with the Sorenskriver. 

“Ah,” said Knutty, “you are a strange pair, you and 
your boy.” 

He made no reply; but afterwards said in an absent 
sort of way: 

“I think I will take a stroll in the direction of the 
foss.” 

“Ah, I should if I were you,” said Knutty, with a 
twinkle in her eye. “The Sorenskriver will be so pleased 
to see you. Pm sure.” 

He glanced at her a little suspiciously, but saw only 
a grave, preoccupied expression on her naughty old face. 

But when he had gone, she laughed to herself and 
said : 


168 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


"Yes, there is decidedly daylight, not through a leper’s 
squint, but through a rose-window! Only I must be 
careful not to turn it into black darkness again. I must 
see nothing and hear nothing, and I must talk frequently 
of Marianne — or oughtn’t I to talk of her? NS, I won- 
der which would be the best plan. If I do speak of her 
it will encourage him to remember her; and if I don’t 
speak of her, it will encourage him to brood over her in 
silence ! She always was a difficulty and always will be 

until And even then, there’s the other iceberg to 

deal with — ah, and here he comes — made friends with 
Jens, I see, and no difficulty about the language — Jens 
never speaking a word, and Alan only saying something 
occasionally, like his father.” 

The two boys parted at the Stabur, where Ragnhild 
was standing on the steps holding a pile of freshly-made 
Eladbrod. Alan looked up at her, took off his little 
round cricketing cap, blushed, made his way over to the 
porch, and sat down by Knutty. And Ragnhild thought : 

"That nice English boy. He shall have plenty of 
multebaer.” 

So she disappeared into the Stabur and brought out a 
plateful of multebaer, which she handed him with a 
friendly nod. He fell to without any hesitation, and 
Knutty watched him and smiled. 

"Well, kjaere,” she said, "and what do you think of 
this part of the world ? Glad to be here ?” 

"Yes, Knutty,” he answered. "And it is ripping to 
see you again.” 

"Am I so very ffiully’ ?” she said, in her teasing way. 

"Yes,” he said, smiling. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


169 


“Ah,” she said, “I suppose I am!” And they both 
laughed. 

“Jens and I are going fishing this afternoon up to a 
mountain lake over there,” he said. “I wish you’d come 
too. Do, Knutty.” 

“Dear one,” she answered, “I’ll come with pleasure if 
you’ll send over for one of the London cart-horses. 
Nothing else on this earth could carry me, and then I 
suppose he couldn’t climb ! You surely did not think 
of hoisting me up on one of those yellow ponies? No, 
I think I’ll stop below and eat the fish you bring home. 
All the same, thank you for the invitation. Many re- 
grets that age and weight, specially weight, prevent me 
from accepting.” 

There was a pause, and Alan went on eating his mul- 
tebaer. 

“Did you like your journey to America?” she asked, 
without looking up from her work. 

“Yes,” he answered half-heartedly, and his face 
clouded over. “But — but I was glad to come back.” 

“Well,” she said, “that is what many people say. The 
new world may be good enough in its way, but the old 
world is the old world when all is said and done. And 
you got tired of the Americans, did you?” 

“Oh, no,” he said, “it wasn’t that. But ■” 

He hesitated, and then he blurted out : 

“I wish you’d been with us, Knutty. It would have 
been so different then.” 

“Nei, stakkar,” she said. “You’ll make old Knutty 
too conceited if you go on saying these nice things to 
her.” 

He had put down his plate of multebaer, and was now 


170 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


fiddling nervously with a Swedish knife that Knutty 
had given him. Knutty glanced at him with her sly 
little old eyes. She knew she was in for confidences if 
she conducted herself with discretion. 

“Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand for the 
knife. “This is the way it opens — so — and then you 
stick it through the case — so — and then it’s ready to 
stick anybody you don’t like — so — in true Swedish fash- 
ion, with which I have great sympathy — there it is !” 

The boy went on fiddling with the knife, and then he 
took his cap off and fiddled with that. 

“Hu milde Himmel!” thought Knutty. “These ice- 
bergs ! Why do I ever put up with them ?” 

“Knutty,” the boy began nervously — “I want so 
dreadfully to ask you something — about — mother. Was 
she — very unhappy — do you think? I can’t get out of 
my head what Mrs. Stanhope said — I tried to forget it — 
but •” 

He looked up hopelessly at Knutty, and broke off. 

Knutty gave no sign. 

“Twice I nearly ran away from father,” the boy went 
on — “I — I wanted to be alone — not with father — once at 
New York — and another time at Chicago — there were 
two fellows going out West from there, and — I wanted 
to be alone, not with father — and I thought I could get 
along somehow — other fellows do — and then I remem- 
bered how you said that he only had me — and I stayed — 
but ■” 

He looked up again at Knutty, and this time she 
answered : 

“I know,” she said. “I understand.” 

“You don’t think it beastly of me?” he said. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 171 

“No” she said, “not beastly at all — only very, very 
sad.” 

“You won’t let father know I — I nearly left him?” 
Alan asked. 

“No, you may rely on me,” she answered gently. And 
she knew that she was speaking the truth, and that she 
would have no heart to tell Clifford. With her quick in- 
sight she saw the whole thing in a flash of light. She 
guessed that Mrs. Stanhope had got hold of the boy, and 
planted in his heart some evil seed wdiich had grown and 
grown. The difficulty was to find out exactly what she 
had said to him ; and Knutty knew that Alan would be 
able to tell her only unconsciously, as it were, involun- 
tarily. Her kind old heart bled for the lad when she 
thought how much he must have suffered, alone and un- 
helped. His simple words about wanting to get away 
from his father spoke volumes in themselves. And he 
seemed to harp on this, for he said almost at once : 

“You see, I shall be going back to school, and then to 
College, and then to work.” 

“And then out into the world to make your name as a 
great architect,” she said. 

He smiled a ghost of a smile. 

“Yes,” he said, “but far away, Knutty, out in the 
colonies somewhere.” 

“Alan,” she said suddenly, “you asked me about your 
mother, whether I thought she had been unhappy. I 
don’t know. I never knew her well enough to be able to 
say. I thought she seemed happy when I saw her last — 
about two years ago, I think — and she was looking very 
beautiful — she was a beautiful woman, your mother, and 
well set-up, too, wasn’t she ?” 


172 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Yes,” the boy said, and his lip quivered. He turned 
away and leaned against the pillar of the porch. 

“Oh, Knutty,” he said, turning round to her impetu- 
ously, “why did she die? Why isn’t she here? There 
wasn’t any need for her to die. She never would have 
died if father had been kinder to her, if we’d both been 
kinder to her, But — she was unhappy — Mrs. Stanhope 
said she was unhappy — she told me all about it before 
we left England — I can’t forget what she said — what she 
said about — about father being the cause of mother’s 
death — that’s what she meant — I know that’s what she 
meant. ... I can’t get it out of my head — I never 
thought of it like that until she told me — but when she 
spoke as she did, then I knew all at once that — that— 
that there was something wrong somewhere about 
mother’s death, and that I oughtn’t to forget it, being 
her son — and — and she was fond of me — and ” 

He broke off. Knutty had risen, and put her hand on 
the boy’s shoulder. 

“Kjaere,” she said, in a strained voice, “I did not 
know things were as bad as this with you. My poor 
boy.” 

She slipped her arm through the boy’s arm and led 
him away from the court-yard, down past the cow-house 
and the hay-barns and through the white gate. 

Old Kari was grubbing about, singing her favourite 
refrain to call the cows back : 

Sulla ma, Sulla ma, Sulla ma, aa kjy!* 

Sulla ma, Sulla ma, Sulla ma, aa kjy!* 

Sullam, sullam, sy-y-y y-y-y! 

Bedstemor was in her garden, giving an eye to her 
red-currant bushes of which she was specially proud, and 

* Kjy — Cows. The refrain is merely a doggerel. 


KATHABINE FRENSHAM 


173 


casting a sly glance round to see what the Swedish art- 
ist-lady was doing perched on that rock in the next field. 
She was only looking towards the Gaard and measuring 
the cow-house in the air. Bedstemor thought there was 
no harm in that; and any way, these people had to do 
something. 

The Sorenskriver was coming down from the birch- 
woods, alone and apparently in a disagreeable mood, for 
he pushed roughly on one side the little golden-haired 
daughter of one of the cotters who was playing on the 
hillside : 

“These wretched Englishmen,” he said, frowning. 
“ Uff , they are always in the way, all over the world. 
And I was having such a pleasant time with her before 
this fellow came.” 

Katharine and Clifford were lingering near the foss. 
Katharine was making a little water-colour of the lovely 
scene. Through the trees one could catch a glimpse of 
the shining river and a bit of the bright blue sky. 

“Yes,” Clifford was saying, “my old Dane was wise 
to send us, and we were wise to come back. We were not 
happy together, Miss Frensham. But since we have re- 
turned, the boy is happier, and — I am happier too.” 

Katharine, bending over her work, whispered to her- 
self : 

“And I — I am happier too.” 

But down by Knutty’s mountain-ashes, near the black 
hay-barn, an old woman and a young boy sat, with pale, 
drawn faces. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


G ERDA had pretended to hope that, when Tante’s 
English friends arrived on the scene, she 
would mend her strange ways, and no longer 
haunt the cow-house and seek the companion- 
ship of old Kari and of Thea, who was so clever at mak- 
ing Fladbrod, and Mette, who had three fatherless babies 
and a dauntless demeanour which seemed to be particu- 
larly attractive to wicked old Knutty. But Tante was 
incorrigible, and would not for anyone’s sake have 
missed her evening visit to that august building. So 
after her sad talk with Alan, she stood and waited as 
usual, whilst Mette, that bright gay soul, called the 
cows down to the Gaard. 

“Kom da, stakkar, kom da, stakkar!” (“Come then, 
my poor little dears !”) she cried merrily. 

And Gulkind (yellow cheek), Brungaas (brown 
goose), Blomros (red rose), and Fjeldros (mountain 
rose) responded with varying degrees of bellowing and 
dilatoriness. 

When they were safely in their stalls, the singing be- 
gan. Thea had the softest voice, but Mette had a drama- 
tic delivery. Old Kari acted as prompter when they 
forgot the words of the old folk-songs, and the cows went 
on munching steadily and switching their tails in the 
singers’ faces, so that the music was mingled with 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


175 


strange discords of scolding and Knutty’s laughter. And 
then Mette got up, and began to dance some old peasant- 
dance; and very pretty and graceful she looked too, in 
her old cow-dress and torn bodice. 

“Come, Thea !” she cried. “Let us dance the Spring- 
dance for the good Danish lady to see. Fjeldros and 
Brungaas can wait a few minutes.” 

“Nei, nei, nei!” cried old Kari. “It is not safe to 
dance in the cow-house, Mette. Thou know’st the Hul- 
dre will come and throw stones in at the cows. Thou 
know’st she will come. Ja, ja, I have seen her do it, and 
the cows were killed. Ak, I am afraid. The Huldre will 
come.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mette, winking mischievously at 
Tante, “perhaps it is better to be on the safe side. All 
the same, Fm not afraid of the long-tailed Huldre.” 

“Have you seen her often, Kari ?” asked Tante. 

“Three times,” said Kari, shuddering, “and each time 
she worked me harm. She is mischievous and ugly, not 
like the beautiful green-dressed Huldre. I saw her once 
up at the Saeter, when I was alone and had made a big 
fire. She came and danced and danced before the fire. 
But I must not waste my time with thee. I must milk 
Blomros.” 

“Kari has been taken away by the mountain-people,” 
Mette said, winking again at Tante. “Thou should’st 
tell the Danish lady.” 

But Kari buried herself under Blomros ; and so Mette, 
still anxious to entertain her visitor, struck up with the 
pretty little folk-song, “Home from the Saeter.” 


176 


KATHARINE FRENSIIAM 


HOME FROM THE SAETER. 

AnOantino. p 


We have done our man-y duties, Cheese have made, have butter churn’d} 



Glad are we that home we’re go - ing, Gladder still the cows, I’m sure. 


When they had finished, Knutty looked round and saw 
Gerda standing listening. 

“Now,” said Knutty, “you will understand why I 
come to the cow-house. It is my concert-room. Well 
then, my good friends, good-bye for the present.” 

“Come back to-morrow,” cried Mette. “The milking 
goes so merrily when thou art here.” 

“And mind, no dancing!” said Knutty, smiling and 
putting up her hand in warning. “Remember the long- 
tailed one!” 

Mette’s merry laughter sounded after them, and was 
followed by her finale, the mountain-call to the goats : 

“Kille bukken, kille bukken, kille bukken! lammet 
mit!” with a final flourish which would have made a 
real prima donna ill for a week from jealousy. 

“Mette has got a temperament,” said Knutty, still 
smiling. “Thank Heaven for that ! Anything is better 
than your dead-alivers, your decaying vegetable world. 



KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


177 


No disrespect to you, kjaere, for you look particularly 
alive this evening; a nice flush on your face — whether 
anger or joy, no matter — the effect is the same — life.” 

“Ejnar and I have found some dwarf-birch,” said 
Gerda, pointing to her green wallet. 

“Ah, that is certainly a life-giving discovery,” re- 
marked Knutty. 

“We’ve had a lovely afternoon together,” continued 
Gerda, “and we’ve discussed ‘salix’ to our hearts’ 
content.” 

“Ah,” said Knutty, “no wonder you look so ani- 
mated.” 

“But just by the group of mountain-ashes we met 
Froken Frensham,” said Gerda, “and Ejnar left me. 
And I was angry. But as she had the Sorenskriver and 
your Englishman with her, I didn’t mind so much. Oh, 
it isn’t her fault. She doesn’t encourage him; and she 
cannot help being attractive. But Ejnar ” 

“Why, my child,” said Knutty, “who ever heard of a 
live woman being jealous, generous, and just? You 
can’t possibly be an animal — nor even a vegetable — you 
must be a mineral. I have it — gold !” 

“Tante,” said Gerda, “wait until you have a husband, 
and then you won’t laugh.” 

“No, I don’t suppose I should!” replied Knutty. 
“Other people would do the laughing for me.” 

“No,” said Gerda. “They should not laugh at you in 
my presence, I can tell you.” 

“Ah,” said Knutty, “you’re pure gold, kjaere. There, 
don’t fret about that wretch Ejnar. If he ran away 
from you we could easily overtake him. He’d b6 stop- 
ping to look at all the plants on the wayside; and the 


178 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


lady, no matter who she was, would leave him in disgust. 
No self-respecting eloping female could stand that, you 
know. Come, kjaere. There’s the bell ringing for 
smoked salmon and cheese.” 

But although Knutty kept up her spirits that evening 
she was greatly disturbed by her talk with Alan, and 
distressed to know how to help him. When she went to 
her room she sat for a long time at the window, thinking 
and puzzling. Not a single helpful idea suggested itself 
to her. Her heart was full of pity for the boy, and con- 
cern for the father. She reflected that it was in keeping 
with Marianne’s character to leave this unnecessary 
trouble behind her ; that all the troubles Marianne ever 
made had always been perfectly unnecessary. And she 
worked herself into a rage at the mere thought of Mrs. 
Stanhope, Marianne’s friend. 

“The beast,” she said, “the metallic beast ! I’d like to 
see her whole machinery lynched.” 

After that she could not keep still, but walked up and 
down her big room, turning everything over in her mind 
until her brain was nearly distraught. Once she stood 
rigid for a moment. 

“Had Clifford anything to hide about his wife’s 
death?” she asked herself. 

“No, no,” she replied angrily. “That is ridiculous — 
I’m a fool to think of it even for a moment.” 

Her mind wandered back to the time of Marianne’s 
death. She remembered the doctor had said that Mari- 
anne had died from some shock. 

“Had Clifford lost his self-control that last night 
when, by his own telling, he and Marianne had some 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


179 


unhappy words together, and had he perhaps terrified 
her ?” she asked herself. 

“No, no,” she said. “Why do I think of these absurd 
things ?” 

But if she thought of them, she, an old woman with 
years of judgment and experience to balance her, was it 
surprising that the young boy, worked upon by Mrs. 
Stanhope’s words, was thinking of them?” 

Knutty broke down. 

“My poor icebergs,” she cried. “I’m a silly, unhelp- 
ful old fool, and no good to either of you. I never could 
tackle Marianne — never could. She was always too 
much for me; and although she’s dead, she is just the 
same now — too much for me.” 

She shook her head in despair, and the tears streamed 
down her cheeks; but after a few minutes of profound 
misery she brightened up. 

“Na,” she said, brushing her tears away, “of course, 
of course ! Why was I forgetting that dear Katharine 
Frensham ? I was forgetting that I saw daylight. What 
an old duffer I am ! If I cannot help my icebergs, she 
can — and will. If I cannot tackle Marianne, she can.” 

Her thoughts turned to Katharine with hope, affec- 
tion, admiration, and never a faintest touch of jealousy. 
She had been drawn to her from the beginning; and 
each new day’s companionship had only served to show 
her more of the Englishwoman’s lovable temperament. 
They all loved her at the Gaard. Her presence was a 
joy to them; and she passed amongst them as one of 
those privileged beings for whom barriers are broken 
down and bridges are built, so that she might go her 
way at her own pleasure into people’s hearts and minds. 


180 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


Yes, Knutty turned to her with hope and belief. And 
as she was saying to herself that Katharine was the one 
person in the world to help that lonely man and desolate 
boy, to build her bridge to reach the man, and her bridge 
to reach the boy, and a third bridge for the man and the 
boy to reach each other — as she was saying all this, with 
never one single jealous thought, there came a soft knock 
at her door. She did not notice it at first ; but she heard 
it a few seconds later, and when she opened her door 
Katharine was standing there. 

“My dear,” Knutty exclaimed, and she led her visitor 
into the room. 

“I have been uneasy about you,” Katharine said, “and 
could not get to sleep. I felt I must come and see if 
anything were wrong with you. Why, you haven’t been 
to bed yet. Do you know it is two o’clock ?” 

“It might be any time in a Norwegian summer-night, 
and I’ve been busy thinking,” said Knutty — “thinking 
of you, and longing for the morrow to come when I 
might tell you of some trouble which lies heavy on my 
heart.” 

“Most curious,” said Katharine. “I had a strong feel- 
ing that you wanted me. I thought I heard you calling 
me.” 

“I did call you,” Knutty said, “none the less loudly 
because voicelessly. I wanted to tell you that Mrs. Stan- 
hope did see Alan before he left England. Your warn- 
ing to my poor Clifford came too late. She took the boy 
and made him drink of the poison of disbelief.” 

Then she gave Katharine an account of her painful 
interview with Alan. Katharine had previously told 
Knutty a few particulars of her own encounter with Mrs. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


181 


Stanhope at the Tonedales, and she now, at Knutty ’s re- 
quest, repeated the story, adding more details in answer 
to the old Dane’s questionings. Long and anxiously 
these two new friends, who were learning to regard each 
other as old friends, discussed the situation. 

“I cannot bear that the boy should be suffering in this 
way,” Knutty said. c And I cannot bear that my poor 
Clifford should know. For he has come back happier — 
ah, you know something about that, my dear. And I 
am glad enough to see even the beginning of a change in 
him. Only it is pathetic that he, without knowing it, 
should be steering for some happiness in a distant har- 
bour, whilst the boy should be drifting out to sea — 
alone.” 

“He shall not drift out to sea,” Katharine said. * “He 
must and shall believe in his father again.” 

“Ah, my dear, and how are you going to manage 
that?” Knutty asked sadly. 

“By my own belief,” Katharine answered simply. 

“You believe in him ?” Knutty said, half to herself. 

“Absolutely,” Katharine answered, with a proud smile 
on her face. 

“Ah, my dear,” said Knutty, “how you comfort me ! 
Here have I been wrestling with plans and problems 
until all my intelligence had gone — all of it except the 
very best bit of it which called out to you for help. And 
you come and give me courage at once, not because you 
have any plans, but because you are yourself.” 

They were standing together by the window, and 
Katharine put her arm through Knutty’s. They looked 
a strange pair: Knutty with her unwieldly presence of 
uncompromising bulk, and Katharine with her own spe- 


182 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


cial grace of build and bearing. She was clothed in a 
blue dressing-gown. Her luxuriant hair fell down far 
below her waist. The weird Norwegian moon streamed 
into the room, and shone caressingly around her. It was 
a wonderful night; without the darkness of the south 
and without the brightness of the extreme north ; a night 
full of strange half-lights and curious changes. At one 
moment dark blue clouds hung over the great valley, 
mingling with the mists in fantastic fashion. Then the 
blue clouds would give place to others, rosy-toned or 
sombre grey, and these two would mingle with the mists. 
Then the. next moment the moon would reassert herself, 
and her rays would light up the rivers and fill the mists 
with diamonds. Then there would come a moment 
when mists and clouds were entirely separated; and be- 
tween this gap would be seen, as in a dream, a vision of 
the valley beyond, mysterious and haunting. Verily a 
land of sombre wonder and mystic charm, this great 
Gudbrandsdal of Norway, with its legends of mortal and 
spirit, fit scene for weird happenings and strange beliefs, 
being a part of that whole wonderful North, the voice of 
which calls aloud to some of us, and which, once heard, 
can never be lulled into silence. 

The two women stood silently watching the beauty of 
this Norwegian summer night, arrested in their own per- 
sonal feelings by Nature’s magnetism. 

“Behold!” cries Nature, and for the moment we are 
hers and hers only. Then she releases us, and we turn 
back to our ordinary life conscious of added strength and 
richness. 

Katharine turned impetuously to Knutty. 

“He must and shall believe in his father again,” she 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


183 


said. “I know how helpless boys are in their troubles, 
and how unreachable. But we will reach him — you 
and I ” 

“With you as ally,” said Knutty, “I believe we could 
do anything.” 

“Poor little fellow, poor little fellow,” said Katharine 
tenderly. 

As she spoke she glanced out of the window and saw 
someone coming down from the birch-woods. She 
watched the figure approaching nearer and nearer to the 
Gaard. 

“There is someone coming down from the woods,” 
she said. “How distinctly one can see in this strange 
half-light.” 

“One of the cotters, perhaps,” suggested Knutty. 

“No,” said Katharine, “it is the boy — it’s Alan.” 

They watched him, with tears of sympathy in their 
eyes. They knew by instinct that he had been wandering 
over the hills, fretting his young heart out. They drew 
back, so that he might not see them as he passed up the 
garden. 

They heard him go into the back verandah and up the 
outer stairs leading to his room. 

They caught sight of his troubled face. 


CHAPTER IX. 


I T WAS Katharine who proposed the expedition to 
a group of Saeters. She came down one morning 
in a determined frame of mind ; and no obstacles 
could deter her from carrying out her scheme. 

F was about a day’s journey distant from the Gaard, 

and Katharine had heard of its beauties from several of 
the guests, including the Sorenskriver. The difficulty 
was to get horses at the Gaard, for they were wanted in 
the fields, and when not required for work they appeared 
to be wanted for rest. Solli did not like his horses to 
go for expeditions, and as a rule he was not to be per- 
suaded to change his views. When asked, he always 
answered : 

“The horses cannot go.” And there the matter ended. 
To-day also he said, “The horses cannot go;” and 
Katharine, understanding that entreaty was vain, made 
no sign of disappointment, and determined to walk. 
She invited Alan specially to come with her, and the 
boy, in his shy way, was delighted. Her manner to him 
was so genial that, spite of his trouble, he cheered up. 

“The others may come with us if they like,” she said 
to him; “but we are the leaders of this expedition. It 
is true that we don’t know the way; but born leaders 
find the way, don’t they ?” 

Ejnar declared he would go, and Gerda, still feeling 
injured said she would stay behind. But Tante advised 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


185 


her to go and see that Ejnar did not run away with 
Katharine. The Sorenskriver refused rather sulkily, but 
was found on the way afterwards, having changed his 
mind and discovered a short cut. The little Swedish 
lady-artist accepted gladly, and the Swedish professor 
accompanied her as a matter of course, being always in 
close attendance on his pretty young compatriot. Clifford 
said he would remain with Knutty, but Knutty said : 

“Many thanks. But Fm coming, too. Do you sup- 
pose Fve come to Norway to let others see Saeters? 
Not I ” 

“But, Knutty,” he said, looking gravely at her ; “you 
know we'd love to have you, but ” 

“But you think it is not humanly possible,” she an- 
swered, with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, I agree with 
you. If I walked I should die, and if I rode, the horse 
would die ! And as there is no horse ” 

But just then Jens came into the courtyard leading 
Svarten, the black Gudbransdal horse, and Blakken, a 
sturdy little Nordfjording.* Jens hitched Svarten to 
the gig. Another pony was brought from the field hard 

by- 

The horses can go,” said Solli, looking rather pleased 
with himself ; and the little band of travellers, agreeably 
surprised, called out: 

“Tusend Tak, Solli!” 

“Well, now, there are horses,” Clifford said, turning to 
Knutty. 

“Kjaere,” she answered, “I may be a wicked old 
wretch, but I'm not as bad as that yet! I'll stay at 

* Horse from the Nordfjord. Svarten, the black one; Blak- 
ken, the yellow one. 


186 


KATHAKINE FKENSHAM 


home and read to Bedstemor out of the old Bible which 
Bedstefar bought in exchange for a black cow! Could 
anything be more exciting? But you go — and be 
happy.” 

“Happiness is not for me, Knutty,” he said. 

“No, probably not,” she answered gravely. “But go 
and pretend. There’s no harm in that.” 

“All the same,” he said a little eagerly, “it is curious 
how much brighter and happier I do feel since we came 
here. It’s the getting-back to you, Knutty. That is 
what it is.” 

“Yes, I can quite believe that,” replied Knutty. 
“There now, kjaere, they are starting off.” 

But he still lingered on the porch. 

“What sort of nonsense have you been telling Miss 
Frensham about my researches ?” he said, smiling shyly. 

“Oh,” said Knutty, “I only told her you were engaged 
on some ridiculous stereo-something investigations. I 
didn’t think it was anything against your moral char- 
acter.” 

He still lingered. 

“Do you know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking that I 
shall enlarge my laboratory when I get back. I believe 
I am going to do a lot of good new work, Knutty.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” she answered. “A man isn’t 
done for at forty-three.” 

“No, that’s just it,” he said brightly. “Well, good-bye 
for the present. 

She watched him hasten after the others. She laughed 
a little, and congratulated herself on her beautiful dis- 
cretion. And then she went over to Bedstemor’s, and 
on her way met old Kari carrying a bundle of wood. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


187 


Old Kari, who always plunged without preliminaries 
into a conversation, said: 

“Perhaps that nice Englishwoman will find a husband 
here after all, poor thing. Perhaps the Englishman 
will marry her. What dost thou think ?” 

Meanwhile Clifford hurried after the saeter-pilgrims, 
and caught up with Gerda and Ejnar. Katharine and 
Alan were on in front, but he did not attempt to join 
them. But he heard Alan laugh, and he was glad. A 
great gladness seized him as he walked on and on. She 
was there. That was enough for him. Ah, how he had 
thought of her when he was away. She did not know. 
No one knew. It was his own secret. No one could 
guess even. No one would ever know that Alan’s un- 
happiness was only one of the reasons for their sudden 
return. There was another reason too: his own uncon- 
querable yearning to see her. He had tried to conquer 
it; and he had not tried to conquer it. He had tried 
to ignore it ; and he had not tried to ignore it. He had 
said hundreds of times to himself: “I am not free to 
love her ;” and he had said hundreds of times too : “I am 
free to love her.” He had said of her : “She is kind and 
pitiful — but she would never love me — a broken-spirited 
man — never — never.” And he had said : “She loves me.” 
He had said: “No, no, not for me the joys of life and 
love — not for me. But if only in earlier days — if only 

” And he had said: “The past is gone, and the 

future is before me. Why must I turn from love and 
life?” 

But he had ended with: “No, no, it is a selfish 
dream — there is nothing in me worthy of her — nothing 


188 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


for me to offer her — nothing except failure and a sad- 
dened spirit.” 

But this morning Clifford was not saying or thinking 
that. He remembered only that she was there — and the 
world was beautiful. For the moment, all troubles were 
in abeyance. He scarcely remembered that the boy shirked 
being with him and went his own way in proud reserve. 
He had, indeed, scarcely noticed it since his return. If 
Alan went off with Jens, it was only natural that the 
two lads should wish to be together. And for the rest, 
the rest would come right in time. So he strode on, full 
of life and vigour, and with a smile on his grave face. 
And Gerda said : 

“And why do you smile, Professor ?” 

He answered : 

“The world is beautiful, Frue.* And the air is so crisp 
and fine.” 

Gerda, who enjoyed being with Knutty’s Englishman, 
was glad that Ejnar was lingering behind picking some 
flower which had arrested his attention. She did not 
mind how far he lingered behind alone. It was the 
going-on in front with Katharine which she wished to 
prevent ! She said to Clifford : 

“Your countrywoman is very attractive. I like her 
immensely. Do you like her ?” 

“Yes,” said Clifford. 

“She is not fond of chemistry, I think.” 

“No.” 

“Nor is she botanical.” 

“No,” said Clifford. 

“Nevertheless, she has a great charm,” said Gerda. 


* Frue. Norwegian for Frau. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


189 


“Tante calls it temperamental charm. It must be de- 
lightful to have that mysterious gift. For it is a gift, 
and it is mysterious.” 

Clifford was silent. Gerda thought he was not inter- 
ested in the Englishwoman. 

“How blind he is,” she thought. “Even my Ejnar 
uses his eyes better ; he knows that woman is charming.” 

Katharine was indeed charming that morning, and to 
everyone. She had put little Froken Eriksen, the 
Swedish artist, and the Swedish mathematical Professor, 
Herr Lindstedt, into the gig, so that they might enjoy 
a comfortable flirtation together. They laughed and 
greeted her pleasantly as they drove on in front. 

“Tak !” they said, turning round and waving to her. 
They felt she understood so well. 

Soon afterwards the Sorenskriver was found sitting 
on one of the great blocks of stone which formed the 
railing of the steep road down from the Solli Gaard. 

“Good morning,” he said. “May a disagreeable old 
Norwegian join this party of nations ?” 

Katharine beamed on him, and spoke the one Nor- 
wegian word of which she was sure: “Y dkommen!” 

But she did not let him displace Alan. She kept the 
boy by her side, giving him the best of her kindness and 
brightness. She drew him out, heard something about 
his American journey, and listened to a long description 
of the ship which took him out and brought him home. 
He did not once speak of his father. And she did not 
speak of him. But she had a strong belief that if she 
could only manage to win the boy for herself, she could 
hand him back to his father and say: “Here is your 
boy. He is yours again. I have won him for you.” 


190 


KATHARIHE FREHSHAM 


It was a joy to her to feel that she was working for 
Clifford Thornton. And with the pitiful tenderness 
that was her own birthright, she was glad that she was 
trying to help the boy. She knew she would succeed. 
Ho thoughts of failure crossed her mind. Ho fears of 
that poor Marianne possessed her. She made no plans, 
and reckoned on no contingencies. She had never been 
afraid of life. That was all she knew. And without 
realising it, she had a remarkable equipment for success 
in her self-imposed task. By instinct, by revelation, by 
reason of her big, generous nature, she understood 
Marianne: that poor Marianne, who, so she said to 
Knutty, could not be called unmerciful if she was igno- 
rant — since mercy belonged only to true knowledge. 

So she kept Alan by her side, and he was proud to be 
her chosen companion. She said : 

“This is our show, you know. The other people are 
merely here on sufferance. And if the Sorenskriver 
says anything disagreeable about England, we’ll wollop 
him and leave him tied up to a tree until we return.” 

“Or shove him down into the torrent,” said Alan de- 
lighted. “Here it is, just handy.” 

“Yes, but he has not begun yet,” she answered. “We 
must give the poor man a chance.” 

“Don’t you feel beastly angry when these foreigners 
say anything against England ?” he asked. 

“Beastly angry !” she replied with gusto. 

He smiled with quiet satisfaction. He loved her 
comradeship of words as well as her comradeship of 
thoughts. 

They passed over the bridge leading to the other side 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


191 


of the Vinstra gorge, stopped to rest at the Landhandleri 
(store-shop), and then began their long ascent to the 
Saeters. Up they went past several fine old farms ; and 
as they mounted higher, they could see the Solli Gaard 
perched on the opposite ridge. The road was a rough 
carriage-road leading up to a large sanatorium, which 

was situated about three-quarters of the way to F . 

As they mounted, the forest of Scotch firs and spruces 
seemed thicker and darker, being unrelieved by the pres- 
ence of other trees, as in the valley below. Leafy mosses 
formed the carpeting of the forest, and a wealth of 
bilberries was accumulated in the spruce-woods; whilst 
the red whortleberry showed itself further on in open 
dry spots amongst the pines which crept up higher than 
the Scotch firs,“Grantraer,” as the Norwegians call them. 
Then they, in their turn, thinned out, and the lovely 
birches began to predominate , so that the way through 
the forest became less gloomy; and the spirits of the 
pilgrims rose immediately, and Gerda sang. But, being 
Danish, she sang a song in praise of her native beech- 
woods ! And the Sorenskriver joined in too, out of com- 
pliment to Denmark; but said that he would like to 
recite to the English people the poem about the beeches 
of Denmark, the birches of Sweden, and the fir-trees of 
Norway. The beeches were as the Danes themselves, 
comfortable, easy; the birches were even as the Swedes, 
graceful, gracious, light-hearted ; and the grim firs were 
as the Norwegians, gloomy, self-contained, and sad. 

“Therefore, Froken,” he said, turning to Katharine, 
“judge us gently. We are even as our country itself, 
stern and uncompromising.” 


192 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“But grand, Herr Sorenskriver,” said Katharine, 
“with nothing petty.” 

“Nei da !” he said, looking pleased. “It would be nice 
to think that this was as true of ourselves as of our 
mountains.” 

Then they glanced back at the snow-clad Rondane in 
the distance ; and they came out into the open country, 
and saw the Jutenheim (the home of the giants) in 
front of them. They had left the region of the firs, 
pines, and birches, and reached the land of the dwarf- 
birch, the willow, and the persistent juniper. And here 
the rough carriage road ended; for the sanatorium, 
where the fashionable Scandinavians were taking their 
summer mountain-holiday, was now only a few yards 
off. The saeter-pilgrims had thought of dining there; 
but no one seemed inclined to face a crowd of two 
hundred guests. So the little company drew up by the 
side of a brook, and ate Mysost* sandwiches, the Soren- 
skriver, who continued in the best of good humours, 
assuring Katharine that this was an infallible way of 
learning Norwegian quickly. Alan was disappointed 
that he was not rude. 

“Then we could go for him,” he said privately to 
Katharine. 

“Oh, perhaps he may even yet be rude!” whispered 
Katharine, reassuring him. 

When they had lunched and taken their ease, they 
started once more on their journey, passing the precincts 
of the sanatorium in order to hire boats for crossing the 

beautiful mountain lake; for F was on the other 

side, perched high up on the mountain-slope. By rowing 


*The favorite Norwegian cheese. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


193 


over, they would save themselves about two- miles of 
circuitous rough road. Jens said that he would take 
the gig and the horses round by the road to meet the 
boat. Alan went with him, but he looked back wistfully 
at Katharine once or twice. 

And now a curious thing happened. As Katharine 
and Gerda were standing waiting for their boat, the 
sound of English voices broke upon them. 

“English,” said Gerda. “That is a greeting for you.” 

“Well, it’s very odd,” said Katharine, listening; ‘ff>ut 
I’ve heard that voice before.” 

“Perhaps you think it is familiar because it is Eng- 
lish,” suggested Gerda. 

“Perhaps,” answered Katharine ; but she was still 
arrested by the sound. 

“I thought the Sorenskriver said that no English peo- 
ple came here ?” she said. 

“He said they came very rarely to these parts,” Gerda 
replied. “One or two Englishmen for fishing some- 
times ; otherwise Swedes, Danes, Finns, Russians.” 

“I am sure I have heard that voice before,” Katharine 
said. She seemed troubled. 

“There they go, you see,” Gerda said, pointing to two 
figures. “They were in the little copse yonder — two of 
your tall Englishwomen. How distinctly one hears voices 
at this height! Well, the Kemiker is waiting for us. 
Du milde Gud ! Look at my Ejnar handling the oars ! 
Bravo, Ejnar!” 

“Come, ladies,” called Clifford, cheerily from the boat. 
“Let us be off before the Botaniker upsets the boat. He 
has been trying to reach a plant at the bottom of the 
lake.” 


194 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


When they had taken their places, Katharine turned 
to Clifford, who was looking radiantly happy, and she 
said: 

"Row quickly, row quickly, Professor Thornton. I 
want to get away from here.” 

"Do you dislike the great caravanserai so much?” he 
said. "Well, you have only to turn round, and there you 
have the Jutenheim mountains in all their glory. Are 
they not beautiful ?” 

She looked at the snow-capped mountains ; but for the 
moment their beauty scarcely reached her. She was 
thinking of that voice. When had she heard it? And 
where ? 

"The mountains, the mountains of Norway!” cried 
Clifford. "Ah, I’ve always loved the North, and each 
time I come, I love it more passionately, and this time 
» 

No one was listening to him. Gerda and Ejnar were 
busy trying to see what was in the bottom of the lake, 
and Katharine seemed lost in her own thoughts. Sud- 
denly she remembered where she had heard that voice. 
It was Mrs. Stanhope’s. The words rushed to her lips ; 
she glanced at Clifford ; saw and felt his happiness, and 
was silent. But now she knew why the sound of that 
voice had aroused feelings of apprehension and anxiety, 
and an instinctive desire to ward off harm, both from 
the man and the boy. 

For directly she heard it, she had been eager to hurry 
Clifford away, and relieved that Alan had gone on with 
Jens. 


CHAPTER X. 


S O THEY rowed across the lake, he remembering 
nothing except the joy of being with her, and 
she trying to forget that any discord of unrest 
had broken in upon the harmonies of her heart. 
They landed on swampy ground, and made their way 
over rare beautiful mosses, ling, and low growth of bil- 
berry and cloudberry. Ejnar and Gerda became lost to 
all human emotions, and gave themselves up to the joys 
of their profession. Long after all the rest of the little 
company had met on the rocky main-road to the Saeters, 
the two botanists lingered in that fairyland swamp. At 
last Jens and Alan were sent back to find them, and in 
due time they re-appeared, with a rapt expression on 
their faces, and many treasures in their wallets. The 
country grew wilder and grimmer as the pilgrims 
mounted higher. The road, or track, was very rough, 
scarcely fit for a carriole or stolkjserre, and the Swedish 
mathematical Professor felt anxiously concerned about 
the comfort and safety of the little Swedish artist, who 
was a bad walker and who therefore preferred to jolt 
along in the gig. But she did not mind. She laughed 
at his fears, and whispered to Katharine with her pretty 
English accent: 

“My lover is afraid for my safeness 

And Katharine laughed and whispered back: 

“I hope you are having a really good flirtation with 
him,” 


196 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Ja, ja,” she answered softly, “like the English boy 
says, keeping good V ” 

Grimmer and wilder still grew the mountainous coun- 
try. They had now passed the region of the dwarf -birch 
and willow-bushes, and had come to what is called the 
“lichen zone,” where the reindeer-moss predominates, 
and where the bushes are either creeping specimens, 
growing in tussocks, or else hiding their branches among 
the lichens so that only the leaves show above them. It 
seemed almost impossible to believe that here, on these 
more or less barren mountain-plateaus good grazing 
could be found for the cattle during the summer months. 
Yet it was true enough that in this particular district 
the cows and goats of about fifty Saeters found their 
summer maintenance, about fifty of the great Gaards 
down in the side valleys of the Gudbrandsdal owning, 
since time immemorial, portions of the mountain grazing- 
land. The Sollis’ Saeter was not in this region. It was 
fifty miles distant from the Solli Gaard, and, as Jens 
told the pilgrims, took two whole days to reach, over a 
much rougher country than that which they had just 
traversed. 

“This is nothing,” said Jens smiling grimly, when 
the Swedish lady was nearly thrown out of the gig on to 
Svarten’s back. “We call this a good road; and it goes 
right up to the first Saeter. Then you can drive no 
more. Now you see the smoke rising from the huts. 
We are there now.” 

Jens, usually so reserved and silent, was quite ani- 
mated. The mountain-air and the feeling of being in 
the wild, free life he loved so much, excited him. He 
was transformed from a quiet, rather surly lad into an 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


m 


inspired human being fitted to his own natural environ^ 
ment. Gerda looking at him, thought immediately of 
Bjornson’s Arne. 

“You love the mountains, Jens?” she said to him. 

“Yes,” he answered simply. “I am always happy up 
at the Saeter. One has thoughts.” 

They halted outside the first Saeter, and turned to 
look at the beautiful scene. They were in the midst of 
low mountains. In the distance, across the lake, they 
could see the snow-peaks of the great J utenheim range — 
the home of the giants. Around them rose strange, 
weird mountain-forms, each one suggestive of wayward 
and grim fancy. And over to the right, towering above 
a group of castle-mountains, peopled with strange phan- 
toms born of the loneliness and the imagination, they 
saw the glistening peaks of the Rondane caught by the 
glow of the sun setting somewhere — not there. And 
below them was another mountain-lake, near which 
nestled two or three Saeters apart from the rest, and in 
which they could see the reflection of the great grey blue 
clouds edged with gold. And above them passed in 
tumultuous procession the wonders of a Norwegian 
mountain-evening sky of summer time : clouds of delicate 
fabric, clouds of heavy texture : calm fairy visions, chang- 
ing imperceptibly to wild and angry spectacle: sudden 
pictures of fierce and passionate joy, and lingering im- 
pressions of deepest melancholy: all of it faithfully 
typical of the strange Norwegian temperament. 

“One must have come up to the mountains,” whispered 
Clifford to Katharine, “to understand anything at all of 
the Norwegian mind. This is the Norwegians, and the 
Norwegians are this.” 


198 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


And the grim old Sorenskriver, standing on the other 
side of Katharine, said in his half-gruff, half-friendly 
way: 

“Froken, you see a wild and uncompromising Nature, 
without the gentler graces. It is ourselves.” 

“And again I say, with nothing petty in it,” said 
Katharine, spreading out her arms. “On a big scale — 
vast and big — the graces lost in the greatness.” 

“Look,” said Jens, “the goats and cows are beginning 
to come back to the Saeters. They have heard the call. 
You will see them come from all directions, slowly and 
in their own time.” 

Slowly and solemnly they came over the fields, a 
straggling company, each contingent led by a determined 
leading-lady, who wore a massive collar and bell. She 
looked behind now and again to see if her crowd of super- 
numeraries were following her at sufficiently respectful 
distances, and then she bellowed, and waited outside her 
own Saeter. The saeter-pilgrims stood a long time 
looking at this characteristic Norwegian scene; the wild 
heath in front of them was literally dotted with far-off 
specks, which gradually resolved themselves into cows 
or goats strolling home in true Norwegian fashion — 
largissimo lentissimo! Even as stars reveal themselves 
in the sky, and ships on the sea, if one stares long and 
steadily, so these cows and goats revealed themselves in 
that great wild expanse. And just when there seemed 
to be no more distant objects visible, suddenly something 
would appear on the top of a hillock, and Jens would 
cry with satisfaction : 

“See, there is another one !” He looked on as eagerly 
as all the strangers, very much as an old salt gazing 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


199 


fixedly out to sea. Then some of the saeter-girls came 
out to urge the lingering animals to hurry themselves, 
and the air was filled with mysterious cries of coaxment 
and impatience. At last the pilgrims went to inquire 
about food and lodging for the night. 

“You may get it perhaps,” Jens remarked vaguely. 
This, of course, was the Norwegian way of saying that 
they would get it ; and when they knocked at the door of 
the particular Saeter which Jens pointed out to them, 
a dear old woman welcomed them to her stue (hut) as 
though it were a palace. She liked to have visitors, and 
her only regret was that she had not known in time to 
prepare the room for them in best saeter-fashion. Mean- 
while, if they would rest, she would do her utmost ; and 
she suggested that the gentlemen should go down to the 
Saeter by the lake and secure a lodging there, and then 
they could return and have their meal in the stue here. 
She was a pretty old woman. Pleasure and excitement 
lit up her sweet face and made her eyes wonderfully 
bright. She wanted to know all about her visitors, and 
Gerda explained that they were Swedes, Danes, and 
English, and one Norwegian only, the Sorenskriver. 
She was deeply interested in Katharine, and asked Gerda 
whether the English Herr and the boy were Katharine’s 
husband and son ; and when Gerda said that they were 
only friends, she seemed disappointed, and patted 
Katharine on the shoulder in token of sympathy with 
her. Gerda told Katharine, and Katharine laughed. 
She was very happy and interested. She had forgotten 
the sound of that jarring voice. All her gaiety and 
bonhomie had come back to her. It was she who began 
to help their pretty old hostess. It was she who sprinkled 


200 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


the fresh juniper-leaves over the floor, throwing so many 
that she had to be checked in her reckless generosity. 
Then Gerda fetched the logs, and made a grand fire in 
the old Peise (stone fireplace), and almost immediately 
the warmth brought out the sweet fragrance of the 
juniper-leaves. The old woman spread a fine-woven 
cloth over the one bed in the room. Then she bustled 
into the dairy and brought out mysost — a great square 
block of it, and fladbrod, and coffee-berries, which 
Katharine roasted and then crushed in the machine. 
When the table had been set, the old woman brought a 
bowl of cream and sugar, and the “vaffle” irons, and 
began to make vaffler (pancakes). She filled three large 
plates with these delicious dainties, and her eager face 
was something to behold. Finally she signed to Katha- 
rine, who followed her into the dairy and came back 
carrying two wooden bowls of rommekolle, milk with 
cream on the top turned sour. 

“Now,” she said triumphantly, “everything is ready. 
And here come the Herrer. And now you will want 
some fresh milk. The cows have just been milked.” 

“No, no, thou has done enough. I will go and fetch 
the milk,” said the Sorenskriver, who was in great spirits 
still, and almost like a young boy. “Why, thou dear 
Heaven, I was a cotter’s son and lived up at the Saeter 
summer after summer. This is like my childhood again. 
I am as happy as J ens !” 

So off he went to the cow-house at the other end of the 
little saeter-enclosure. He began to sting a stev* with 
the milkmaids. This was the stev : 


Stev — a vocal conversation. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


201 


ASTRI, MINE ASTRI. 



Andantino. 


m 




-p 

(The Sorenskrtver sang.) 

As - tri, mine As - tri, who cared but for me, The time you were 


P 




car - ing so warm - ly for me; Weep - ing each Sa - tur - day 


P 


re - member it, now that it's past ? 

dim. 

rsz:-*' e rr 


P 


night when I left, Do you 
cres. , 


P 


That was the time when I outshone them all, 

cres. _ 


Law - yer and 


P 


priest in the vai - ley were nought, That was the time when I 
dim. 


outshone them all, Law-yer and priest in the valley were nought. 


(The milkmaid answered)— 

The time you were caring for Astri alone, 

Was the time when that Svanaug you cared not to see; 

The time when your steps were so active and brisk, 

Hastening to greet me each Saturday eve. 

That was the time when no riches on earth. 

Fair could have seemed without my sweetheart’s love. 

That was the time when no riches on earth, 

Fair could have seemed without my sweetheart’s love. 

He returned with two jugs of milk. A merry laugh 
sounded after him, and he was smiling too. The saeter- 
door was divided into two parts, and he shut the lower 
half to keep out the draught; and when the old woman 
tried to slip away, leaving her guests to enjoy them- 
selves in their own fashion, he said : 

“No, no, mor, thou must stay.” And everyone cried 
out: 



202 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Thou must stay.” 

So she stayed. She tidied herself, folded a clean 
white silk kerchief crosswise over her head ; and she took 
her place at the table, dignified and charming in her 
simple ease of manner. Many an ill-bred, low-born, and 
ill-bred, well-born society dame might have learnt a 
profitable lesson from this old saeter-woman ; something 
about the unconscious grace which springs from true 
unselfconsciousness. And she smiled with pride and 
pleasure to see them all doing justice to the vaffler, the 
mysost, the fladbrod, and the rommekolle. She was 
particularly anxious that the English lady should enjoy 
the rommekolle. 

“Stakkar!” she said. “Thou must eat the whole of 
the top ! J a, saa, with sugar on it ! It is good. Thou 
can’st not get it so good in thy country ? Thou hast no 
mountains there, no Saeters there? Ak, ak, that must 
be a poor sort of country! Well, we cannot all be born 
in Norway.” 

And she laughed to see Alan pegging away at the 
vaffler. 

“The English boy shall have as many vaffler as he 
likes,” she said. “Wilt thou have some more, stakkar? 
I will make thee another plateful.” 

It was a merry, merry meal. Everyone was hungry 
and happy. The Sorenskriver asked for some spaeke- 
kjod (smoked and dried mutton or reindeer), which was 
hanging up in the Peise. He cut little slices out of it 
and made everyone eat them. 

“Otherwise,” he said, “you will know nothing about a 
Norwegian Saeter. And now a big piece for myself! 


KATHAKINE FBENSHAM 


203 


Isn’t it good, Botaniker ? Ah, if you eat it up you will 
be inspired to find some rare plants here !” 

Then they all drank the old saeter-woman’s health : 

“Skaal 1” they said. 

And then Clifford said : 

“Skaal to Norway !” 

And the Sorenskriver said : 

“Skaal to England!” 

And the botanists said: 

“Skaal to Sw r eden l” 

And the Swedish professor said : 

“Skaal to Denmark !” 

Then the Sorenskriver added : 

“Would that all the nations could meet together up at 
the Saeter and cry “ ‘Skaal !’ 

And at that moment there came a knock at the door, 
and a little man in English knickerbockers and Norfolk 
jacket asked for admittance. 

“English, Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, German?” 
asked the Sorenskriver. 

“Monsieur, je suis un peintre fmncais ” said the little 
man, somewhat astonished. 

“Then Skaal to France !” cried the merry company, 
draining their coffee-cups. 

The Frenchman, with that perfect tact characteristic 
of his nation, thanked them in the name of his country, 
his hand on his heart ; and took his place amongst these 
strangers, at their invitation. And then they gathered 
round the fire and heaped up the logs. Katharine never 
forgot that evening: the five nations gathered together 
in that quaint low room built of huge tree-trunks roughly 
put together., with lichen and birch leaves filling in the 


204 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


crevices: the curious mixture of languages; the fun of 
understanding and misunderstanding: the fragrance of 
the juniper : the delightful sense of good-fellowship : the 
happiness of being in the presence of the man she loved : 
the mysterious influence of the wild mountains: the 
loosening of pent-up instincts and emotions. Years 
afterwards she was able to recall every detail of the 
surroundings: the Lur (horn) hanging on the wall, and 
in those parts still used for calling to the cattle; the 
Langeleik (an old kind of zither) in its own special 
recess, seldom found missing in real old Norwegian 
houses, silent now, but formerly playing an important 
part in the saeter-life of bygone days; the old wooden 
balances, which seemed to belong to the period of the 
Ark; the sausages and smoked meat hanging in the 
Peise ; the branches of fir placed as mats before the door ; 
the saeter-woman passing to and fro, now stopping to 
speak to one of her guests, now slipping away to attend 
to some of her many saeter-duties. Then at an oppor- 
tune moment the Sorenskriver said : 

“Now, mor, if we heap on the logs, perhaps the green- 
dressed Huldre will come and dance before the fire. 
Thou hast seen the Huldre, thou? Tell us about her — 
wilt thou not?” 

But she shook her head mysteriously, and went away 
as if she were frightened; but after a few minutes she 
came back, and said in an awed tone of voice : 

“Twice I have seen the green-dressed Huldre — ak, 
and she was beautiful ! I was up at the Saeter over by 
my old home, and my sweetheart had come to see me; 
and ak, ak, the Huldre came and danced before the fire — 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


205 


and she bewitched him, and he went away into the 
mountains and no one ever saw him again.” 

“And so,” she added simply, “I had to get another 
sweetheart.” 

“Aa ja,” said the Sorenskriver. “I expect there was 
no difficulty about that.” 

“No,” she answered, “thou art right.” 

And she beat a sudden retreat, as though she had said 
too much ; but she returned of her own accord, and con- 
tinued : 

“And the second time I saw the Huldre it was on the 
heath. I had gone out alone to look for some of the 
cows who had not come home, and I saw her on horse- 
back. Her beautiful green dress covered the whole of 
Blakken’s back, and her tail swept the ground. And 
Blakken flew, flew like lightning. And when I found the 
cows, they were dying. The Hul'dre had willed them ill. 
That was fifty years ago. But I see her now. No one 
can ever forget the Huldre.” 

So the evening passed, with stories of the Huldre, and 
the Trolds, and the mountain-people of Norwegian lore; 
for here were the strangers in the very birthplace of 
many of these weird legends, all, or most of them, part 
and parcel of the saeter-lif e ; all, or most of them, woven 
out of the wild and lonely spirit of mountain-nature. 

And then the little company passed by easy sequence 
to the subject of visions and dreams. Someone asked 
Katharine if she had ever had a vision. 

“Yes,” she answered, “once — once only.” 

“Tell it,” they said. 

But she shook her head. 


206 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“It would be out of place,” she answered, “for, oddly 
enough, it was about God.” 

“Surely, Mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman, “we are 
far away enough from civilisation to be considered near 
enough to God for the moment ?” 

But she could not be induced to tell it. 

“You would think I was a religious fanatic,” she said. 
“And I am neither fanatical nor religious.” 

“Ah,” said Ejnar, “I hope I may have a vision to-night 
of what is in the bottom of that lake we crossed over.” 

“You did your very best, Professor, to include us all 
in that vision of the bottom of the lake,” said Clifford 
quaintly. 

“My poor Ejnar, how they all tease you !” said Gerda. 

“I think,” said Katharine, “the Kemiker ought to 
know better, being himself a scientific man. Probably 
if he were piloting us all down a mine, say, he would 
not care what became of us if his eye lit on some unex- 
pected treasure of the earth-depths.” 

“Noble lady,” said Ejnar smiling, “I perceive I have 
a friend in you, and the Kemiker has an enemy.” 

Clifford Thornton looked into the fire and laughed 
happily. 

Then Gerda said : 

“Twice I have dreamed that I found a certain species 
of fungus in a particular part of the wood ; and guided 
by the memory of my dream, the next day I have found 
it. Have you ever found anything like that in a dream, 
Professor Thornton?” 

Clifford looked up with a painful expression on his 
face. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


207 


“I always try my very hardest never to dream, Frue,” 
he answered. 

“And why?” she asked. 

“Because up to the present we appear to have no 
knowledge of how to control our dreams,” he replied. 

“But if we could control them, they would not be 
dreams,” said Katharine. 

“So much the better then,” answered Clifford; “they 
would be mere continuations of self-guided consciousness 
in another form.” 

“But it is their utter irresponsibility and wildness 
which give them their magic,” cried the French artist. 
“In my dreams, I am the prince of all painters born 
since the world began. Mon Dieu, to be without that ! 
I tremble ! Life would be impossible ! In my dreams I 
discover unseen, unthought-of colours ! I cry with rap- 
ture !” 

“In my dreams,” said the Swedish mathematician, “I 
find the fourth dimension, the fifth dimension, the hun- 
dredth dimension!” 

“In my dreams,” said the Sorenskriver, waving his 
arms grandiosely, “I see Norway standing by herself, 
strong, powerful, irresistible as the Vikinger themselves, 
no union with a sister country — nei, nei, pardon me, 
Mathematiker !” 

“Why, you would take away the very inspiration of 
the poet, the very life of the patriot's spirit,” said Katha- 
rine, turning to Clifford. 

“You are all speaking of the dreams which are the 
outcome of the best and highest part of ourselves,” said 
Clifford, speaking as if he were in a dream himself. 


208 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“But what about the dreams which are not the outcome 
of our best selves ?” 

“Oh, surely they pass away as other dreams,” she 
answered. 

“But do you not see,” he said, “that if there is a 
chance that the artist remembers the rapture with / which 
he discovered in his dream that marvellous colour, and 
the patriot the joy which he felt on beholding in his 
dreams his country strong and irresistible, there is also 
a chance that less noble feelings experienced in a dream 
may also be remembered. 

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. 

“Mon Dieu !” he said. “We cannot always be noble — 
not even in our dreams. I, for my part, would rather 
take the chance of dreaming that I injured or murdered 
some one and rejoiced over it, than lose the chance of 
dreaming that I was the greatest artist in the world. 
Why, I have murdered all my rivals in my dreams, and 
they are still alive and painting with great 6clat pictures 
entirely inferior to mine ! And I am no worse for having 
assassinated them and rejoiced over my evil deeds in my 
dream.” 

“Probably because there were no evil consequences,” 
Clifford said. “But supposing there had been evil con- 
sequences, what then?” 

“But you do not seriously believe that there is any 
such close relationship between dream-life and actual 
life, between dream-cause and actual effect?” asked 
Gerda. 

“I do not know what I believe about it, Frue,” he 
answered. “Some day science will be able to explain to 
us the mysterious working of the brain in normal life, 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 209 

in dream-life, in so-called death: and the connecting 
links.” 

He had risen as he spoke, as though he, even as the 
old saeter-woman, had let himself go too much, and now 
wished to slip away quietly. But they all rose too, and 
the Sorenskriver said : 

“We have spent a true saeter-evening, communing with 
mysteries. The spirit of place has seized us, the moun- 
tain-spirit. But if we do not soon get to rest and sleep 
dreamlessly, we shall have no brains left us in the morn- 
ing for yet another mountain mystery — the making of 
the mysost !” 

“Tak for maden” (thanks for the meal), he added, 
turning to the old saeter-woman. 

“Tak for maden l” cried everyone in a pleasant chorus. 

“And tak for behagelight selskab !” (thanks for your 
delightful company), he said, turning to all his com- 
rades. 

“Tak for behageligt selskab !” cried everyone. 

Then the men went off to the Saeter down by the lake ; 
and Katharine, Gerda, and the little Swedish artist 
arranged themselves for rest as well as they could in a 
rough saeter-stue. The two of them were soon asleep; 
but Katharine lay on her bench in the corner watching 
the fire, listening to the moaning of the wind, and think- 
ing of Clifford Thornton. 

“Dreams, dreams,” she thought. “Why should he 
dread to dream ? And his face was full of pain when he 
said that he tried never to dream. Ah, if I could only 
reach him — sometimes we seem so near — and then ” 

Katharine slept. 

But in the morning she was up betimes, and out in 


210 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


the early freshness and crispness. She was alone on that 
wild expanse. There was deep stillness all around her. 
Silently, softly the magic mists were caressing the moun- 
tains. The stars were losing their own brightness in 
the brightening skies. The sun was breaking over the 
distant snow-peaks of the Giant range. She was alone 
with Nature. And Nature set her free. 

“My beloved !” she cried. “My life was as grey as this 
great dreary wild until your presence glorified it. You 
broke in upon my loneliness — the bitterest loneliness on 
earth — a woman’s heart-loneliness — you broke in upon 
it so that now nothing of it remains — scarcely the 
memory. Have no fear, my beloved. I will gather up 
your past life and your past love with reverential tender- 
ness. I have no fear. My love for you and my belief in 
you shall conquer everything.” 

Clifford Thornton was mounting from the Saeter 
down by the lake-side. He came out joyously into the 
freshness and crispness of the early morning. He was 
alone on that wild expanse. There was deep stillness 
all around him. Silently, softly the magic mists were 
caressing the mountains. The stars were losing their 
own brightness in the brightening skies. The sun was 
breaking over the distant snow-peaks of the Giant range. 
He was alone with Nature. And Nature set him free. 

“My love !” he cried. “I fling the past behind me at 
last. There are no barriers — none — none. Fool that I 
was to think I was not free. Free! I am as free as 
these vast stretches of wild country, free as this mountain 
air. Do you know, will you ever know, oh, you must 
know, my own beloved* that I am yours — yours, un- 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


211 


utterably yours. Shall I ever clasp you in my arms and 
know that you are mine ?” 

Then suddenly he saw Katharine in the distance, and 
she saw him. She was moving towards him as he was 
moving towards her. He hastened to meet her with a 
tornado of wild gladness in his heart. 

But when they came face to face they stood in silence, 
as when they had first met on the evening of the quar- 
tette. 

He was the first to find words. 

“Don’t let us go back/’ he said ; “let us go on — let us 
go on — the morning is still young — and there is no glad- 
ness like the gladness of the early morning. What do 
you think?” 

“No gladness like the gladness of the early morning,” 
she repeated joyously. 

So they passed on together, over the wild and stony 
heathland, in the direction of the Rondane mountains: 
he with a song in his heart, she with the same song in 
hers. 

“Isn’t it glorious to be up here?” he cried. “I feel 
like the Sorenskriver himself — a silent, surly fellow sud- 
denly turned light-hearted and eloquent. Knutty always 
said I ought to have been a Norwegian.” 

“And I feel like Jens,” said Katharine, “an inspired 
person, with grand, big thoughts in my mind, which I 
shall lose on my way down to the valley again. Ak, ak !” 

“What was your vision ?” he asked. “Will you not tell 
me ?” 

“If you wish,” she answered; “but it is not worth 
telling, really. I have never told anyone. I don’t know 
how I came to let those words slip out last night.” 


212 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Tell me/’ he said, turning to her. 

“Well,” she said, “I was going to have a slight opera- 
tion to my mouth, and some anaesthetic had been given 
to me. I was trying my very hardest to keep my con- 
sciousness to the last millionth of a minute ; when I saw 
a look of great mental suffering and tension on the 
surgeon’s face. And I said to myself : ‘I will be merci- 
ful to the man, and I will make a sacrifice to him of 
what I value most on earth at this moment: the tiny 
remaining fragment of my consciousness. He will never 
know, and no one will ever know ; all the same, from my 
point of view, it is a deed of infinite mercy/ So I let 
myself pass into unconsciousness an infinitesimal instant 
of time sooner than I need have done. I heard him 
say : ‘Now P Suddenly I found myself in a vast region, 
which seemed limitless, which seemed to consist of in- 
finite infinities which one nevertheless could see, were 
Unities blending with each other imperceptibly.” 

Katharine stood still a moment. 

“And I realised,” she continued, “how little I had 
ever known about the proportion of things, how little 
my mind had ever grasped the true significance of 
finities, which here were certainly infinities. I felt en- 
tirely bewildered, and yet wildly excited. Ever since I 
can remember great space has always excited me. And 
suddenly, whilst I was wondering where to go, what to 
do, whom to reach, I saw a woman near me — a beautiful 
woman of so-called ill-fame. And she cried out to me : 

“‘This is Heaven, and I am straining upwards, up- 
wards, upwards through all the infinities until I reach 
God. For it takes the highest to understand the 
lowest / 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


213 


“And I went with her, and a dim vision of God broke 
upon me, and I knew no more. But I came back to 
consciousness saying : ‘For it takes the highest to under- 
stand the lowest.’ ” 

She paused a moment, and then said : 

“If I had been thinking of God I could better under- 
stand why I had that vision.” 

“You had been thinking of God,” he answered. “You 
had thought of mercy and sacrifice, of an inappreciable 
quantity and quality from a finite point of view; and 
that led you to think unconsciously of the different 
aspect and value of things when seen and understood 
by an infinite mind unbounded by horizons. If there 
is a God, that must be God — the greatest and highest 
mind which understands the lowest grade of everything ; 
religion, morals, morals, religion.” 

“But it is not you who should have a vision of that 
kind,” he added. “You do not need it. It should come 
to those who cannot see beyond their prison wall. It 
might make them wish to break through it and see the 
open space, and still more open space, and still more 
open space. But you, who have the free spirit, you were 
surely born in the open space ; no petty narrow horizon 
for you, but a wide and generous expanse.” 

“Alas,” she said, “you are imputing to me virtues 
which I have not !” 

“They are not virtues,” he answered. “They are part 
of your temperament ; born with you, not acquired.” 

She smiled at his praise. It was very sweet to her. 
He smiled too. He was proud that he, a prisoner of 
silence, had had the courage to say those words to her. 
And on they went together, he with a song in his heart, 


214 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


and she with the same song in hers. Once she thought 
to ask him why he tried never to dream ; but she glanced 
at his grave face lit up with happiness, and she grudged 
that even a passing shadow of pain should mar the 
brightness of the morning. And once, perhaps at that 
same moment, he himself thought of his dreams, and 
felt, by sudden inspiration, that one day, one day he 
would be able to open his heart to her — the woman born 
in the open space — and tell her the history of his bur- 
dened mind. The thought flashed through him, and 
brought, not memories of the past, but hopes for the 
future. 

At last they turned back to the Saeter, and realised 
they had come a long way: far away from the beat of 
the cows and goats. But after a spell of solitude, they 
met a few of the wandering creatures, who stopped to 
look at them and inquire in loud chorus what right they 
had to venture on these private pastures. And after 
a time they came upon more stragglers; and then they 
made out a black cow in the distance, immovable and 
contemplative; but, on closer inspection, it proved to be 
Ejnar examining some new-found treasure! As they 
approached he called out to them : 

“What have you brought back from your long walk ?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” they cried together. 

“Well,” he answered, looking at them pityingly, “how 
foolish to go for a long walk, then !” 

They laughed, passed on, and found Gerda standing 
scanning the distance. 

“Did you see my Ejnar?” she inquired. “It is time 
for breakfast, and the Sorenskriver has been singing in 
the Lur to call everyone in. Ah, there it is again [ The 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 215 

Sorenskriver is in great good spirits again this morning. 
He is like a big boy.” 

He was like a big, good-natured boy at breakfast, too. 
Alan confided to Katharine that he thought the old chap 
was behaving awfully disappointingly well. 

“He hasn't been disagreeable one single moment,” 
Alan whispered. “And look here, he has given me this 
Lap knife. Isn't it jolly of him ?” 

“I think that we shall all have to give him a vote of 
thanks instead of wolloping him and tying him to a 
tree,” whispered Katharine. 

“Oh, but there's all the way back yet,” said Alan 
quaintly. And then he added: “I say, you'll let me 
come along with you again, won't you ?” 

“Of course,” she answered, her heart going out to the 
boy. “Of course; we are the leaders of this expedition, 
and must take our followers safely home.” 

He blushed in his boyish way, and slipped away with 
a happy smile on his young face. He did not know it, 
but he admired and liked Katharine tremendously. He 
did not realise it, but he always felt, after he had been 
with Katharine, that his old love and longing for his 
father began to tug at his heart. He went and stood by 
him now in front of the Saeter, and slipped his arm 
through his father's. 

“It's splendid up here, isn't it, father ?” he said. 

“Yes, Alan,” answered the man joyfully, as he felt the 
touch of his boy's arm. 

It was the first time for many months that the boy 
had crept up to his father in his old chum-like fashion. 
Katharine watched him, and knew that for the moment 
they were happy together, and that she had begun and 


216 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


was carrying on successfully her work of love and healing 
for the boy as well as for the man. 

“It is a morning of happiness,” she said to herself ; 
and when the merry little Swedish artist came into the 
saeter-hut and showed her the sketch which she had been 
making of the interior, she found the Englishwoman as 
gay as herself. 

“Why,” she said to Katharine, “you look as if you 
was having the flirts as well as me ! What do you think 
of my sketch ? Not bad ? I give it perhaps to my lover.” 
Then she danced round the room singing a gay Swedish 
melody : 


THE MAIDEN AND I. (Aanta a ja.) 






i — i * — ix— 1 ** — * — * 5 

morn bright and clear, The sun in the heavens shin - ing so fair, And 


fair as the radiant morn was she, My heart, where went thou straying ? 


The old saeter-woman laughed, clapped her hands, 
and cried : 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 217 

“Ja vel, it is good to dance when one is young and 
happy !” 

And then the Sorenskriver blew the Lur again to 
summon everyone to the cheese-making. 

“Mor,” he said, “thou must show us everything, so 
that all these foreign people may remember the only 
right way to make the best cheese in the world.” 

So they went into the dairy, and saw all the different 
kinds of bowls and pans, and rows of square blocks of 
Mysost kept there to settle into solidarity. Each block 
weighed about ten pounds, and Katharine was amazed 
to hear that it took the milk of forty goats to make one 
of these cheeses a day. Then they saw the infernal 
machine which separates the milk from the cream, and 
the Sorenskriver, still acting as general showman, poured 
a vessel of fresh rich milk into the iron ogre, whilst 
Katharine, under directions, turned the handle, and 
made the mighty beast to roar and screech. Everyone's 
nerves were set on edge. Ejnar dashed wildly from the 
“stue”; but was collared by Alan and Jens, for the 
Sorenskriver cried out : 

“Don't let the Botaniker go off by himself. We shall 
never find him, and our time is getting short.” 

And then they went to the other little “stue” where 
the cheese was being made. There were two large open 
cauldrons over the great stone-oven, and two pretty 
young saeter-girls (saeter-gjenter) were busily stirring 
the contents of the cauldrons. They told Gerda that 
one cauldron contained cream and the other milk, from 
which the cheese had first been taken by mixing it with 
yeast. And the pigs got the rejected cheese. Then the 
two liquids were heated slowly for about four hours, 


218 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


being stirred unceasingly, and when they were on the 
verge of boiling, they were mixed together. Meantime 
they both looked and tasted like toffee, and smelt like 
toffee too. 

“And now you have seen the true and only Mysost, 
mine darner og Herrer,” said the Sorenskriver drama- 
tically. “Now you know the two secrets of Norwegian 
greatness — the Mountains and the Mysost!” 

And he half meant it, too, although he laughed. And 
the old saeter-woman quite meant it. 

“Ja, ja,” she said proudly, and inclined her head with 
true Norwegian dignity. 

Then they packed up and paid. The paying was not 
quite an easy matter. The old saeter-woman made no 
fixed charge, and appeared not to want to take any 
money. The Sorenskriver had a twinkle in his eye when 
he settled up. He knew that, in accordance with Nor- 
wegian peasant-etiquette, she would appear to be indiffer- 
ent to the money, accept it reluctantly, and then probably 
not consider it enough! However, he managed this 
delicate task with great skill, and began to arrange for 
returning to the Solli Gaard. But none of the company 
was anxious to be off. They lingered about, strolling, 
talking, laughing. The French artist was making a 
small water-colour of the picturesque interior of the 
stue. And he wanted to come with them too, if they 
could wait a little. The old saeter-woman gave Katha- 
rine a large cow-bell. 

“It has rung on these mountains a hundred years 
and more,” she said. “Thou shalt have it. It is for thee, 
stakkar. I like thee. Thou art beautiful and kind. It 
is a pity thou art not that Englishman’s wife.” 


KATHABINE FEENSHAM 


219 


She beckoned to Gerda to come and translate her 
words, and the three women laughed together. Gerda 
said in a whisper : 

“It is a good thing that the Kemiker is out of the way. 
He would be astonished, wouldn’t he ? I don’t think love 
is much in his line, is it? Why, he is less human even 
than my poor Ejnar — if indeed such a thing is pos- 
sible!” 

But Katharine stooped down and kissed the old saeter- 
woman. 

“Tusend, tusend tak!” she said. She rang the bell, 
and then pointed to the old woman and then to her own 
heart. She attempted some Norwegian words of ex- 
planation, too, most of them wrong — which added to 
the merriment. The Sorenskriver translated them. 

“When I ring the bell, I shall think of you.” 

A few minutes later Katharine, Alan, and Clifford 
were sitting on the great blocks of stone outside the 
saeter-enclosure, when Alan said : 

“Hullo ! Here are two people coming up the road — 
two ladies. They have alpenstocks. What bosh ! Any 
baby could get up here.” 

“Probably they are on their way to some real climb- 
ing,” Clifford said. “You know the Norwegian women 
walk and climb a great deal in the summer. I always 
think of little Hilda Wangel in Ibsen’s ‘Masterbuilder’ 
when I see them with their stocks and knapsacks. You 
remember she came straight from the mountains to the 
Masterbuilder’s office — The young generation knocking, 
knocking at the door.’ Ah, and that reminds me about 
Ibsen’s Teer Gynt.’ We must not leave the Gud- 
brandsdal without making a pilgrimage to Peer Gynt’s 


220 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


home. Jens has been telling me about it. That ought 
to be our next outing. Will you come ?” 

“I am ready for anything,” Katharine answered. 

“Hullo!” said Alan, “English voices. We ought to 
get up and wave a Union Jack.” 

The voices came nearer and nearer. Katharine heard 
that same hard, metallic tone which had distressed her 
on the previous evening. She was distressed now. She 
looked from father to son and son to father. They had 
not yet recognised that voice. But they understood in- 
stinctively that some disturbing element had come into 
their atmosphere. They stood up. Katharine rose. 
They were on either side of her. The next moment 
Mrs. Stanhope and her companion appeared on the top 
of the ridge, and stood face to face with them. For one 
brief moment they were all too much astonished to utter 
even an exclamation of surprise. They merely looked 
at each other. 

Then Mrs. Stanhope stepped forward, and held out 
her hand to Alan. She ignored the presence of Clifford 
and Katharine, and made straight for the boy. 

“Alan,” she said in her kindest way, “who would have 
thought to find you up here ?” 

“This is my dear friend’s son,” she said, turning to 
her companion. “You know how often I have spoken 
of Marianne to you.” 

Slowly, reluctantly the boy left Katharine’s side, and 
took the hand held out to him. 

“I thought you were far away in America,” Mrs. 
Stanhope said. 

“We have come back,” the boy answered simply. 


KATHAKINE FKENSHAM 


221 


“Ah,” she said with a glance at Clifford and Katha- 
rine. “The dead are soon forgotten.” 

And she added : 

“Well, dear boy, some other time we must have an- 
other long talk together. And remember I am always 
waiting for you — for your dear mother’s sake.” 

And she passed on, but they heard her saying aloud to 
her friend : 

“And that is the woman I told you about. She amuses 
herself with men and throws them over, just as she threw 
over Willie Tonedale, my poor infatuated cousin. And 
now she is amusing herself with this widower. She 
might have had the decency to wait a little longer until 
poor Marianne ” 

Katharine hurried after the two women. 

“How dare you, how dare you speak of me in that 
way?” she said in a voice which trembled with passion. 
“Some day you shall answer to me for it. If we were 
not in a foreign country, you should answer to me for it 
now.” 

“It is good of you to put it off until we are in our 
own country,” said Mrs. Stanhope, with a forced laugh. 
But she looked uneasy, for Katharine’s flushed and 
angry face was not reassuring. 

At that moment the Sorenskriver, the Swedish 
mathematical Professor, the little Swedish artist, and 
the Frenchman came out of the stue. 

“Well,” asked the Sorenskriver, “are we all ready? 
Thou are not glad to leave the Saeter, Jens. Nor am I. 
But all good times must come to an end. Nei da, 
Froken Frensham ! Are we leaving just when you have 
found compatriots ? That is too bad.” 


222 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Oh 5 I think I can do without them for the present/’ 
Katharine said, with a laugh. She had composed her- 
self outwardly; but inwardly she was consumed with 
anger and mortified pride. But her moral courage did 
not forsake her, although she knew that Mrs. Stanhope 
had deliberately tried to put her at a disadvantage with 
that man and that boy. But she trusted them. She 
returned to them, and said, with a wistful smile on her 
face: 

"I heard her voice down by the lake-side. That was 
why I felt distressed. I knew she would spoil our hap- 
piness — yours — the boy’s — mine.” 

“She has always spoilt our happiness,” the boy said. 

“Always,” said the man, “always.” 

Then Alan did an unexpected thing. 

“Come along,” he said impulsively, putting his arm 
through Katharine’s. “Never mind what she says. Let’s 
get away from her. Come along, father.” 

Clifford looked at his boy wistfully. 

“You two go on ahead,” he said. “I don’t want you 
ever to see her, Alan. She has never been a friend to 
us. But I must see her — for our own pride’s sake — Miss 
Frensham’s — yours — mine.” 

“Father,” cried the boy. “I have seen her once since 
— since mother died ; you didn’t know it, but I have seen 
her — just before we left for America.” 

“Ah,” said Clifford, “I might have known it.” 

They watched him walk back to the stue. He turned 
and waved to them to move on. Gerda and Ejnar joined 
them, and the Sorenskriver called out: 

“Do not wait for the Kemiker. He has gone back to 
help his compatriots, who cannot speak any Norwegian. 


KATHARINE FRENSIIAM 223 

Farvel, mor, and tak for alt!” (Thanks for every- 
thing). 

“Farvel, farvel !” the old saeter-woman cried, waving 
to them all ; and then she followed Clifford into her stue, 
where Mrs. Stanhope and her friend were seated on the 
bench. She sank down in her chair, tired. 

Clifford took off his hat, and stood, a tall proud figure. 

“I have come back to tell you, Mrs. Stanhope,” he 
said very slowly, “that I have never even thought it 
worth my while to attempt to shield myself against your 
malignant tongue. But I shall shield my friend whom 
you have just insulted. And I shall shield my boy. 
You shall not get hold of him and attempt to influence 
him against me. If you attempt to see him again, I 
warn you that I will make direct inquiry concerning all 
the damaging words you have said against me, and I will 
prosecute you to the bitter end for defamation of char- 
acter ; to the bitter end, Mrs. Stanhope ; at the cost of 
all the suffering to my pride.” 

She had never before confronted him, and a feeling of 
vague uneasiness about some of her indiscreet words 
seized her. For once in her life her ready tongue failed 
her. 

“You have always been our evil genius,” he went on. 
“Time after time my poor Marianne and I could have 
got nearer to each other but for you. But you shall not 
be my boy’s evil genius. You shall not come between 
him and me.” 

Mrs. Stanhope still did not speak. She was tired, 
bewildered. 

“And,” he said, “I would warn you, too, that it is 


224 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


unwise of you to try to belittle Miss Frensham in the 
presence of her friends.” 

Mrs. Stanhope still gave no sign. His quiet, deliberate 
manner intimidated her. For one moment there was 
a painful silence, to which the saeter-woman put an 
end. 

“Be so good as to tell them to go,” she said to Clifford. 
“I do not want any more guests now. I am tired. Tell 
them to go to the third Saeter away from here.” 

He told them, with a ghost of a grim smile on his 
drawn face; and they could see for themselves that the 
old saeter-woman wished to be rid of them. She was 
pointing dramatically in the direction of the third 
Saeter. They rose to go. 

“You do not appear to have much belief in your son’s 
belief in you,” Mrs. Stanhope was able to say as they 
passed out of the stue. 

“My dear Julia,” her friend said, “I really advise you 
to remain speechless for the rest of our visit to a Nor- 
wegian Saeter ! Surely you don’t want two libel-suits ! 
You know, my dear, I’ve always said your indiscretion 
» 

They passed out of hearing. Clifford took leave of 
the old saeter-woman, and went to join his companions. 

“Ah,” he thought, “she was able to find the right 
weapon with which to wound me.” 

Meantime Katharine and Alan were waiting for him. 
The boy had thrown himself down on the ground, and 
seemed lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly he said to 
her : 

“How did you know it was her voice? You have 
never seen her — have you ?” 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


225 


“Yes,” Katharine answered. “I have seen her once 
before, Alan, when she said cruel and slanderous things 
against your father. Everyone was shocked. No one 
believed.” 

“No one believed,” Alan repeated to himself. 

“No one could believe such things of a man like your 
father,” Katharine answered without looking at him. 
“Even I, a stranger to him, knew they must be untrue. 
I thought to myself at the time what a curse it must be 
to be bom with a tongue and a mind like Mrs. Stan- 
hope’s. Much better to be a sweet old saeter-woman 
like the old woman up there.” 

“What was it she said about father?” the boy asked 
with painful eagerness. 

“I think you know,” Katharine replied gently. 

And just then Clifford came towards them. Alan got 
up and ran to meet him. 

“Father,” he cried, “I want to tell you everything she 
said to me. Fve tried dozens of times, but ” 

“I know, Alan,” Clifford said tenderly. “You are 
even as I have been all my life — a prisoner of silence. 
We will have a long talk when we get home.” 

It was a glorious day: with bright warm sunshine, 
cold, crisp air, and a sky of unbroken blue. And all 
around stretched the great and wonderful distances, less 
mysterious in the frankness of the morning, but always 
possessed of mystic influence and eloquent bidding. But 
the harmony of the day was gone for Clifford, Katharine, 
and Alan; the gladness of the expedition was over for 
them. Still, they took their part with the others, and 
did their best to hide their own sad feelings. The re- 
turning pilgrims passed over the wild heathland, through 


226 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


the low and luxuriant growth of brush, juniper, and 
stunted willow, through the birch-woods and pine-forests, 
and so downwards, downwards, their faces set towards 
the Rondane mountains and their backs to the great 
Jutenheim range. Gerda sang, Ejnar was rescued from 
swamps, the French artist sketched, and the little 
Swedish lady flirted with him, for a "changeling,” so 
she told Katharine ! The Mathematiker sulked, Katha- 
rine comforted him, and Alan kept close to her whilst 
Clifford strolled along, sometimes with them, sometimes 
alone, and sometimes with Gerda, who loved to get him 
to herself. The Sorenskriver had left his geniality be- 
hind at the Saeter. He became quieter and quieter, until 
he reached his normal condition of surliness. Jens, 
however, remained in a state of mountain-exhilaration 
all the way home, and, encouraged by sympathetic 
listeners, told stories of frightful Trolds living in the 
mountains, and of the occasions when he himself had 
seen apparitions of men, women, and horses fading into 
nothing on near approach. 

"Ja, vel,” he said, "at this very water-trough where 
Svarten is now drinking, I have seen half-a-dozen horses 
standing and barring the road; but when I came near 
they have disappeared. Ja, ja, I ? ve even heard them 
being whipped, and heard the noise of their hoofs strik- 
ing the ground.” 

He told a story of a man he knew, who had once seen 
several men, all black and all wearing top-hats, "just like 
church-people,” standing on a stone-heap down in the 
valley. He shouted to them, but they did not answer, 
and then he was foolish enough to ask them to show him 
their backs. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


227 


“Now,” said Jens, “yon know they have not any 
backs, and he had scarcely pronounced the words when 
he fell in a dead faint. This was about six o’clock in 
the evening; and two hours later he regained conscious- 
ness and found himself lying near his own home. As it 
was in the valley that he met these people, they must 
have carried him up home. He is very grave and quiet 
now, and you will never hear him making fun of the 
Huldre-folk.” 

It was late in the afternoon when the travellers 
reached the Gaard. The flag had been hoisted and was 
flying at half-mast. Knutty came out to meet them, and 
said: “Velkommen tilbage” (welcome back). 

And then she added : 

“Jens, Bedstefar is dead.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


T HE silence of death rested on the Gaard, and 
everyone went about softly in courtyard and 
house. The visitors had asked Mor Inga 
whether or not she wished them to leave; 
but her message was that they might stay if they pleased. 
Nevertheless, two or three of them, who resented the 
presence of death, took themselves off at once ; but their 
places were filled up by a party of mountaineers who 
had come down from the Dovrefjelde. One of them, so 
Knutty told her dear ones, was a Finnish botanist, and 
he had found some rare flowers which had much ex- 
cited him. Knutty had a great deal of news to give; 
and it was obvious that she had not been having a dull 
time. 

“I began by reading the Scriptures to Bedstemor out 
of that remarkable book bought in exchange for a black 
cow,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “That was 
truly enlivening, wasn’t it? Then a lone, weird man 
and his dog came down from the mountains. He had 
been fishing. He had been on two Polar expeditions 
and his dog on one. The dog had just that superior 
look and manner about him which would seem to pro- 
claim that he had been on the way to the North Pole. 
He seemed to be saying the whole time: ‘Don’t dare to 
stroke me in that familiar way. I have been on a Polar 
trip !’ The man was more human, and told me a great 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


229 


deal. Then the old Foged (under-magistrate) from 
the valley came to inquire about Bedstefar. I flirted 
with him, and we drank aqua-vitae in the arbour. Also 
I had my musical entertainment in my usual concert- 
hall, the cow-house. Also, Mor Inga was good enough 
to tell the milkmaids that they might dance for me in 
the fladbrod-room. And beautifully they danced, too! 
Their feet scarcely touched the floor! And then, dear 
ones, this morning I had a great joy — a joy of joys — an 
English book to translate, but not a novel, nor a prob- 
lem play — nothing about the sexes for once. Du gode 
Gud, what a relief ! — no — a book defending and explain- 
ing the English people, written by a just and patriotic 
man, and to be translated into all the continental lan- 
guages. And I am to do it into Danish. Ah, I am a 
happy old woman — kille bukken, kille bukken, sullei, 
sulleima ! Na, I long to finish it at once, and throw it 
at the Sorenskriver’s head !” 

“Ah, we must deal gently with the Sorenskriver,” 
said Katharine. “He has been an old dear. He has 
been the life and soul of the saeter-expedition. And he 
has not said one word against England.” 

“Because the old coward is afraid of the British 
lioness,” Knutty said, smiling at her. “You should 
have seen her, my Clifford, in the early days here, stand- 
ing up to the Sorenskriver and the fur-merchant from 
Tromso and overcoming them. And as for Ejnar, she 
has quite quelled him too. We don’t hear anything 
nowadays against Kew Gardens.” 

They all laughed, and handled the book each by turn 
almost lovingly. The author would have been touched 
if he could have seen that little group in a foreign land 


230 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


bending over his book, and thinking of him with pride 
and gratitude. 

“And if we feel grateful,” Katharine said, “we, 
merely temporary and willing exiles in a foreign coun- 
try, imagine what the feelings of enforced and perma- 
nent British exiles will be. I always have a great sym- 
pathy with Britishers who have burnt their boats and 
are obliged to live under a foreign flag. I would like 
to ship them all home.” 

“You would ship home many broken hearts,” Clifford 
said. 

“Well, the place for broken hearts is home,” Kath- 
arine answered. 

“I cannot say that the saeter-expedition has exhil- 
arated any of you,” remarked Knutty. “And you have 
not told me anything about it yet.” 

“You have been talking so much yourself, Tante,” 
Gerda remarked. 

“Kjaere,” returned Knutty; surely thou dost not 
wish me to be a prisoner of silence like my Clifford ?” 

Her words brought Alan’s impulsive outburst to the 
remembrance of both Clifford and Katharine. They 
looked at each other. The boy was not there. 

“Knutty,” said Clifford,” we saw Mrs. Stanhope up 
at the Saeter.” 

“Well,” she said, “you do say astounding things when 
you do speak.” 

He smiled gravely. 

“Yes,” he replied, “we saw Mrs. Stanhope up at the 
Saeter.” 

But at that moment Ragnhild came into the verandah 
and touched Knutty on the shoulder. She had not been 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


231 


crying ; but she had on her pretty face that awed expres- 
sion which the presence of death in a community gives 
to even the most unemotional. For death is a shock, 
and the mystery of it holds us under its influence 
whether we be willing or not. 

“Froken,” she said, “Bedstemor is asking for thee. 
No one will do except only thee. And they have carried 
Bedstefar into the other house. And Mor is very tired. 
Thou wilt come, ja?” 

Tante went off with Ragnhild, and she had no further 
chance, that evening, of talking with Clifford. But 
Katharine told her details of that strange encounter up 
at the Saeter, and ended up by saying naively : 

“And you know, Knutty, part of what Mrs. Stanhope 
said is true, for I have flirted tremendously in my time. 
At least, my brother always says so.” 

“Well, my dear,” Knutty said, embracing her, “and a 
good thing too ! A woman is not worth her salt if she 
does not know how to flirt. But all women do know, 
though they call it by different names — taking an in- 
terest in — making slippers for — embroidering waistcoats 
for — doing mission work for — and so on, in an ascend- 
ing scale of intensity, you know, from the slipper-busi- 
ness onwards and upwards to the postchaise, or, I sup- 
pose we ought to say, motor-car in these advanced days ! 
Don't regret your flirtations. They have made you 
what you are — a darling ! Believe the word of a wicked 
old woman.” 

“I don't regret them !” Katharine said, as she went off 
to bed, laughing quietly. 

But the next morning Clifford gave Tante an account 
of the meeting with Mrs. Stanhope ; and in the gentlest 


232 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


way possible, Knutty confessed to him that she knew 
Alan had been suffering and grieving over certain vague 
ideas which Mrs. Stanhope had planted in his mind 
when she saw him a day or two before they sailed for 
America. Knutty did not tell him what these ideas 
were; and he did not ask. But she described to him 
how Katharine and she had seen the boy coming down 
from the hills in the middle of the night, and how they 
had yearned to help him back to happiness and ease of 
spirit. 

“Then you knew that Alan had been worked on by 
Mrs. Stanhope, and yet you never gave a hint to me?” 
Clifford said. 

“Ah,” Knutty answered, “I had no heart to tell you. 
You were happy. It is such a long time since I have 
seen you happy. I had no heart to wound you.” 

“Alas,” said Clifford, “I have been thinking only of 
myself.” 

And he turned away from Knutty. 

“It was not so at first,” he said, as he turned to her 
again. “At first I thought only about my boy whom I 
had hurt and alienated by my selfish outbreak just be- 
fore his mother’s death. I did all in my power to woo 
him again. I grieved over his growing indifference to 
me. I said in the bitterness of my heart : ‘Marianne is 
between us.’ On our travels I tried to forget and ignore 
it. But I longed to return; for there were no results 
of happiness to him or me from our journey and our 
close companionship. When we were on our way home, 
my heart grew suddenly lighter. And since that mo- 
ment, I have been thinking only of myself — myself, 
Knutty. I have scarcely noticed that the boy did not 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


233 


want to be with me. I have not wanted to be with him, 
I have been forgetting him.” 

“But we have not been forgetting him, she and I,” 
Knutty said gently. “Don’t grieve. Every right- 
minded human being ought to have a spasm of self 
occasionally.” 

He smiled and stooped down to kiss her kind old hand. 

“And you saw the little fellow wandering about in the 
silence of the night ?” he asked sadly. 

Knutty nodded. 

“That stabs me more than anything,” he said. “He is 
like me, Knutty. I have taken most of my own sorrows 
out into the stillness of the night.” 

“Yes, kjaere,” Knutty answered. “He is like you. It 
is a good thing for me that I am not going to live long 
enough to know his grown-up son. There of exactly the 
same pattern — ak! — I couldn’t stand that in one life- 
time !” 

They were sitting on Tante’s verandah, where she 
had established herself with her writing-materials, her 
English dictionary and the book which she was trans- 
lating. 

“Have I really been such a burden to you?” he said 
a little wistfully, playing with her pen. 

“Ja, kjaere,” she said, with a charming old smile. 
“You have been one of those heavy burdens which are 
the true joy of silly old women like myself.” 

And then she added : 

“But for you, my spirit would be like a piece of dried 
fish in the Stabur. Things being as they are, it is much 
more like one of those tender fresh mountain-trout 
which Jens and Alan are going to catch for poor Bed- 


234 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


stefar’s funeral. So be of good cheer, Clifford. You 
have done me only good. All the same, three of you — 
nei tak, no thank you ! But I have always yearned over 
the first — and I find myself yearning over the second — 
yearning over that little chap ! Ak, that metallic beast 
of a woman ! Fd like to break up her mechanism / 5 

Clifford rose. 

“Knutty , 55 he said, “I have not asked you what she 
said, because I want Alan to tell me himself. I am 
going to find him now / 5 

When he reached the door of the verandah, he paused. 

“At least there is one thing that she could not have 
put into his heart and head , 55 he said, ‘‘because she did 
not know it — no one knows it — not even you, Knutty, 
although I have tried to tell you times without number. 
But it didn 5 t come; and so the weeks have worn into 
months . 55 

“Kjaere , 55 she said, in real distress, “have you still 
anything on your mind about poor Marianne ? 55 

“Yes, Knutty , 55 he answered, and he went away. 

“Ah, ak , 55 she said to herself. “It 5 s just like that 
wretched Marianne to be immortal . 55 

She sat there puzzled and grave, but eventually made 
a great effort to throw off worrying thoughts, and to 
focus her mind on the translation-task. 

Meanwhile Clifford passed up to his room thinking 
of his boy. He saw him wandering on the hillside in 
the silence of the night. The picture which thus rose 
before his mind’s eye, touched him to the quick. 

“We must pot it all right between us,” he said ; “once 
and for all.” 

Then his door opened, and Alan came in. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


235 


“Father,” he began shyly. 

“My boy,” Clifford said, and he put his hand on Alan’s 
shoulder, “I can’t bear to think of you wandering about 
in the night alone, unhappy, and uncomforted. What 
is it that you have against me ? What is it that has been 
rankling in your mind ? What is it that has made you 
drift farther and farther away from me — I, alas, doing 
nothing to help you back to me ? I know Mrs. Stanhope 
says unkind and unjust things against me; but I never 
cared what she said, until I knew that my boy had turned 
from me. Now I care.” 

“Oh, father,” Alan cried, with a ring of distress in his 
voice, “I’ve been so unhappy. I’ve tried to tell you 
dozens of times. You don’t know how I’ve longed to 
come and tell you.” 

“Yes, I do know,” Clifford answered. “For I have 
tried to ask you time after time and could not. One 
night before we started for America, I bent over your 
bed, heard you sobbing in your dreams, and nearly woke 
you to ask you what was troubling you — but I could not. 
It is awfully hard for shup-up fellows like you and me to 
reach each other, isn’t it? But let’s try now — this very 
moment; let’s break the ice somehow. Tell me every- 
thing, without fear and reserve; tell me everything — 
nothing can wound me so much as being without our 
dear chumship — nothing.” 

Then the boy told him everything, bit by bit, in de- 
tached fragments; now with painful effort, now with 
sudden ease. Clifford listened, his heart grey. He had 
not expected the story to be as bad as this. He heard 
that the boy had been terribly upset by his mother’s 
death following immediately on their conversation that 


236 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


day, when Clifford told him that he intended to separate 
from Marianne. He had brooded over that. It was so 
sad to think that his father had wanted to get rid of his 
mother, and that she had died, alone, and no one earing. 
He had brooded over that. Not at first, but after he had 
seen and spoken with Mrs. Stanhope. He had tried to 
forget what Mrs. Stanhope said about his father having 
been unkind to his mother, about his father having been 
the cause of his mother’s death. He could not forget it. 
He did not understand exactly what she meant ; but he 
had thought about it hours and hours, and he remem- 
bered he had seen in the papers that his father had said 
at the inquest that mother and he had had unhappy 
words together that very evening; and then — and then 
all sorts of dreadful thoughts had come into his mind, 
and he could not drive them away, and ■” 

He stopped and looked at his father, who had begun 
to walk up and down the room. 

“Go on, my boy,” Clifford said gently. 

And the boy went on pitilessly, with the ruthlessness 
of youth which is unconscious, involuntary. As he gath- 
ered courage and confidence, he felt the wild relief of 
freeing himself from his pent-up condition. And he 
told his father he had begun to wonder more and more 
how his mother had died — how she had died — and then 
he had remembered what Mrs. Stanhope had said to 
him about his sonship ; he couldn’t forget that — his son- 
ship — and he did not feel he ought to go on loving his 
father if there was any doubt about the manner of his 
mother’s death — no son could stand that — and yet he 
had always loved his father so awfully, so awfully, and 
he could not believe that he would have done anything tQ 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


237 


hurt his mother; and yet he did not know — everything 
seemed so strange and wrong — and he was so very un- 
happy, and the journey did not make things better for 
him, for these dreadful thoughts were at the back of 
everything he saw and heard — even on the sea, on that 
bully steamer; and twice he had nearly run away — he 
wanted to get away by himself, away from his father — 
yes, away from his father, because he could not bear to 
be with him and feel 

He stopped again. Clifford stood still. His face was 
ashen. 

“Go on,” he said, almost inaudibly. 

And Alan went on, and told his father how he had 
tried to leave him and could not, and how he had tried 
to come and pour out his heart to him and entreat him 
to say that it was not true what Mrs. Stanhope had said. 
But he could not. And old Knutty had urged him to 
come. But he could not. And then, he did not know 
why, but lately he had been feeling happier again, 
happier each day, and he had not been thinking so much 
about — about his mother’s death. And they had all been 
so jolly up at the Saeter, until that beastly woman had 
come and spoilt everything ; she always had spoilt every- 
thing for them, and he hated her when he saw her again, 
just as much as he ever used to hate her — and he hated 
her for saying those beastly things against Miss Fren- 
sham, who was such a brick, and — — 

A pang of jealousy shot through the man’s heart. 

“Ah,” he said to himself bitterly, ‘‘he is up in arms 
for her.” 

“And, oh, father,” cried the boy passionately, “I hate 
myself for believing what she said against you — I don’t 


238 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


know how I could have thought anything bad of you: 
but I have, nearly the whole time since she spoke to me 
about — about mothers death; and, oh. Eve been so un- 
happy.” 

He had been sitting on the edge of his father’s bed; 
and now, as if he had suddenly come to an end of his 
powers of telling, he flung himself lengthwise on the bed 
and turned his face to the wall. 

For one moment Clifford hesitated. He would have 
given anything on earth to have eased his mind then and 
there by telling the boy all the circumstances of poor 
Marianne’s tragic death. The old conviction that he 
was responsible for Marianne’s death assailed him once 
more. The old battle between common sense and morbid 
sensitiveness raged within him. Was he responsible for 
Marianne’s death? Was he not responsible for Mari- 
anne’s death? Was it his duty to tell the boy? Was it 
his duty to spare the boy? Would it not be cruel to the 
boy to burden him with a knowledge which he could not 
understand, and cruel to himself to risk being hated 
and shunned by his own son ? And for what — for what ? 
— for a fiction woven from the fine, frail threads of mor- 
bid conscientiousness. But in spite of everything — oh, 
the luxury of opening his locked-up heart — now — this 
moment ! 

Then a vision of the boy wandering alone on the hill- 
side in the silence of the night rose before him. 

He went and sat on the bed where the boy lay, with his 
face turned to the wall. He put his hand on Alan’s arm. 

“Alan,” he said, “be comforted. There was nothing 
unnatural in your mother’s death; nothing which I, 
humanly speaking, could have prevented — nothing. Her 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


239 


heart was weak — weaker than she herself knew; but I 
knew — that was why ” 

He paused ; for the dead are despots, and must not be 
spoken against. 

“That was why I had always tried to keep her tran- 
quil/’ he said. 

The boy did not stir. 

“I know what you have been thinking,” Clifford went 
on. “I understand. It was only' right for you to have 
turned from me if such a terrible thought had taken pos- 
session of you. If you had not done so, you would not 
have been worthy to be called a mother’s son. I know 
well how the thought grew in your mind. It grew im- 
perceptibly until it reached this terrible size, didn’t it ?” 

The boy moved his head in silent assent. 

“But now you must get rid of it,” Clifford said quietly, 
“because it is not true. Your mother and I were not 
always happy together; things were not always easy for 
her, nor sometimes quite easy for me, and I made many 
mistakes, and I know I must have been very trying to 
her — often — often — one thinks of all those mistakes 
when it is too late. But, whatever I did do, or failed to 
do, I swear to you solemnly, that I never meant to be 
unkind to her.” 

Alan turned impulsively round, threw his arms round 
his father’s neck, and whispered : 

“Oh, father, I know you never were unkind to her.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


C LIFFORD was deeply wounded. It was all so 
much worse than he had expected. The in- 
jury to the boy, the injury to himself wrought 
by Mrs. Stanhope surpassed in reality his own 
vague anticipations of ill. But, as usual, he hid his feel- 
ings under his impenetrable manner, and to Knutty he 
only said : 

“Knutty, Alan has been able to open his heart to me. 
And I have been able to tell him that — that I did not 
kill his mother / 5 

“Oh, my dear one / 5 she cried,- “you have suffered — 
both of you — the boy and you . 55 

“It will be all right now for him , 55 Clifford answered. 
“And for you ? 55 she asked anxiously. 

“It will be all right for me later , 55 he said. “I am 
going for a long walk to think things over and pull 
myself together. And, Knutty, I want to tell Miss 
Frensham that I thank her with my whole heart for 
urging the boy to come to me this morning. I cannot 
speak of it myself just now. But you will tell her . 55 

Knutty watched him climb up the steep hillside, pass 
the different barns, and disappear into the birch-woods. 

“Ha , 55 she said, “it is the best plan for him to go and 
have it out by himself with Hature, which he loves, to 
help and sustain him . 55 

Later on she found Katharine, and gave Clifford’s last 
message. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


241 


“Those were his last words, kjaere,” she said. “I don’t 
grudge them to yon one little bit. If you had not be- 
witched that boy, we should not be one single step 
forrader. It was all too much for me. Seventeen stone 
cannot bewitch anyone. I know my limitations as well 
as my weight.” 

“Seventeen stone can stand solidly by like a fine old 
fortress,” said Katharine, giving her a hug. 

“That metallic beast — that metallic beast!” Knutty 
exclaimed. “She is fifty times worse than poor Mari- 
anne. Marianne was merely an explosive substance. 
She was a pretty bad explosive substance, I will own. 
But she had some kind of a heart. Mrs. Stanhope has 
only some sort of artificial clockwork contrivance. But 
I’d like to tear even that out. Ak, ak, how hot it is! 
Fat people will go to Heaven when they die, I feel sure ; 
for they’ve had all their roasting on earth !” 

“There is thunder in the air,” Katharine said, as she 
fanned Tante with an English newspaper. “I am sure 
we are in for a storm. I hope Professor Thornton will 
not go far. Alan is out, too. He went off with Jens a 
few minutes ago, down to the valley, to the Landhand- 
leri. He has been talking to me about his mother, 
Knutty. We had a stroll together before breakfast, and 
then it wag I told him that ” 

Katharine paused. 

“That he would never forgive himself if he were to 
lose his father before he had told him what his trouble 
had been.” 

Knutty put down her knitting. 

“Why did you say that?” she asked. 

“I don’t know/’ Katharine answered. “It came into 


242 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


my head, and I felt something had to be done to help the 
boy through the barrier of silence at once.” 

“Before it was too late, you meant?” Knutty said, 
looking distressed. 

“Yes,” replied Katharine simply. 

“Well,” said Knutty, in her own generous way, “I am 
glad he knew you did it.” 

But they were not to be allowed to have further 
private conversation that afternoon ; for Bedstemor, now 
recovered from the first shock of Bedstefar’s death, came 
across from her own house to the Gaard. Ragnhild hur- 
ried out to the porch, and begged Froken Knudsgaard to 
keep Berstemor by her side and prevent her from mak- 
ing a descent on the kitchen, where already great prep- 
arations were going on for the funeral-feast. 

“Bedstemor is going to give trouble !” Ragnhild whis- 
pered. “Thou knowest she likes to have everything very, 
very grand. She wants us to do twice as much as we are 
doing. Ak ! There she comes now. Wilt thou not keep 
her and talk with her? Let her tell thee again about 
her marriage, and how she danced her shoes through on 
her wedding-day.” 

Knutty captured Bedstemor, and the old lady sat in 
the porch and talked of poor Bedstefar. 

“A ja,” she said quaintly, “he is dead at last, poor 
man. He was two years dying. It seemed a long time.” 

Then she added mysteriously : 

“God has been very good to me. And I feel very 
happy.” 

“Aha, that is a good thing,” said Knutty. “Nei, nei, 
Bedstemor, don’t go and make yourself hotter in the 
kitchen. It is terribly hot this afternoon. Stay here 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


243 


with me and tell me about your wedding. Tell me the 
history of this old, old family. And is it true, Bed- 
stemor, that when you were fifteen, you were carried off 
by the mountain-people ? Tell me all about it. You can 
trust me. I won’t breathe a word to anyone.” 

So in this way Bedstemor was kept quiet, entertained 
and entertaining by speaking of herself and old days, 
and old ways. She told Knutty about Foderaad, the 
legal dues paid to the parents by the eldest son who takes 
over the management of the Gaard. Knutty learnt that 
Foderaad varied in different families; but in the Solli 
family it meant the possession of five cows, eight sheep, 
sixteen sacks of grain annually, a two-year-old calf for 
killing each autumn; also a pig, and a potato field, or 
else the payment of 60 kroner a year. Bedstefar’s death 
would deprive Bedstemor of rather less than half this 
Foderaad; she would have three cows, five sheep, half 
the quantity of grain, half the value of the potato field, 
and, of course, pig and calf entire ; and the dower-house 
with all its belongings undisturbed. 

But the moment arrived when Bedstemor could no 
longer be deterred from going into the Gaard which had 
once been hers, and making straight for the kitchen, in 
a masterful manner born of reawakened memories of 
ownership. Then Mor Inga came out and had a cry; 
but Tante patted her on the back and whispered cheering 
words which brought a smile to Mor Inga’s tearful face. 

“Ja,” said Mor Inga, “thou art right, thou. One can 
never please one’s relatives. It is stupid to expect to do 
so. It was a wise remark. Thou good Danish friend of 
mine !” 

She told Tante that the old order of things was pass- 


244 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


ing away, even in the more remote parts of the valley; 
but as Bedstefar belonged to the old order, he was to be 
buried according to the “gammel skik” (the old custom) . 
But they intended to reduce the number of feast-days to 
the lowest number compatible with the dignity of the 
family and due honour to the dead — about four days; 
only in that case it would be necessary to show more 
than ordinarily lavish hospitality, so that none of the 
guests might feel that the family had not the means nor 
the desire to entertain them right royally. The kitchen 
had already become the scene of increased industry ; and 
Ragnhild would soon be cooking countless jellies and 
innumerable fancy biscuits. No cakes were to be made; 
for, according to custom, the guests would bring them on 
the day of the funeral, or send them the day before. A 
sheep, an ox, and a calf were to be killed that very even- 
ing, and some one would be sent to bring back fresh 
Mysost from the Saeter. And two days before the burial, 
Jens and a fair-haired cousin Olaf would go up into the 
mountains to bring back a good supply of trout from the 
lake. Mor Inga reckoned that they would need about 
200 pounds. Then the main dwelling-house and all the 
brown houses would have to be thoroughly scoured and 
put in order. 

“The guests must not see one speck of dust nor one 
unpolished door-handle,” Mor Inga said. “For they will 
walk over the whole house and notice everything.” 

“Now remember,” enjoined Knutty, as Mor Inga rose 
to go back to domestic difficulties, “do your best and 
don’t waste time trying to please any relation on earth; 
for it is an impossibility.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


245 


Solli passed by afterwards, and paused to say a few 
words to Tante. He did not often talk. 

“We are in for a thunder-storm,” he said. "I wish 
we had more water. Rain has been so scarce that we 
have no water with which to put the fire out, if the 
Gaard should be struck by lightning. There has not 
been such a dry season for years.” 

Old Kari paused a moment on her way to the house, 
where Bedstefar lay in sublime unconsciousness of life, 
the things of this world, and the bustling preparations 
which were being carried on for his funeral-feast. He 
lay there decorated with scented geranium-leaves. The 
entrance-door of his resting-place was guarded by two 
young fir-trees, which Karl had cut down from the 
woods above. He was visited from time to time by dif- 
ferent members of the family, and old Kari went in 
continually, sprinkling the ground with water, and 
strewing fresh sweet juniper leaves on the floor which 
Bedstefar would never tread again. She held some 
juniper in her apron now. 

“God morgen,” she said, nodding to Tante. “Ak, ja! 
I knew Bedstefar would die yesterday. Lisaros was so 
restless. And there is still more trouble to come, for 
Fjeldros has a very sore throat !” 

Then Jens and Alan came back in the gig. 

“We are going to have an awful storm, Knutty,” Alan 
said. “It is suffocating down in the valley. Where's 
father ?” 

“He went out,” Knutty answered, pointing vaguely in 
the direction of the birch-woods. 

“I'll go and meet him,” Alan said. 


246 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Don’t go, Alan/’ Knntty said a little anxiously. 
“You don’t know which way he will come back.” 

“Knutty,” the boy asked shyly, “did he tell you we’d — 
we’d — we’d ” 

“Yes,” answered Knutty, with a comforting nod; “I 
know all about it.” 

“I feel quite a different fellow now,” Alan said. “And 
father was so awfully good to me. He wasn’t angry or 
upset or anything. And he was just splendid about 
mother, and — and, Knutty, I — I shall always hate my- 
self.” 

“You may do that as much as you like, so long as you 
love him,” Knutty said. “Now help me up, stakka. I 
am going to take another lesson in the making of flad- 
brod. And Mette is beckoning to me that she is ready to 
begin.” 

As they strolled together across the courtyard to the 
stue where Mette was making the fladbrod, Knutty said : 

“I feel ten stone lighter to-day to think that my dar- 
ling icebergs have come together again. They must 
never drift apart any more.” 

“Never,” said Alan eagerly; and Knutty, glancing at 
him out of the corner of her sharp little eyes, was satis- 
fied that Clifford had won or was winning his son back 
to their old loving comradeship. 

“Ah,” she thought, “how unconscious the boy is of the 
wound he has inflicted on his father. Well, that’s all 
right. It is only fair on the young that they should not 
realise the limits of their own understanding.” 

So they went in and watched the bright and dramatic 
Mette, with whom Tante had an affinity, making flad- 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


247 


brod for the funeral-guests. She explained that she 
was making the best quality now : cooked potato, barley 
and rye, finely-powdered and mixed, without water. 
Gaily she rolled this mystic compound until it was as 
thin as a sheet of paper, and she whipped it off with a 
flourish on to the top of the fladbrod oven, known as a 
“Takke,” a round, flat iron oven placed for the time 
being in the Peise. Then she turned it at the right 
moment on to its other side, and whisked it off with 
another flourish on to the top of a great pile of fladbbrod, 
which looked like a ruined pillar of classic times. 

“Ja, visst,” said Tante, nodding approvingly, “thou 
art a true artiste , Mette.” 

“I do it best when Fin watched,” said Mette, laughing. 
“Then I get excited.” 

“An artiste should get excited,” said Knutty. 

Then Knutty learnt that there were other kinds of 
fladbrod, the coarsest quality being made of beans, 
barley, and water. And she was still acquiring accurate 
knowledge on this important subject, and listening de- 
lightedly to Mette’s animated explanations, when a clap 
of thunder was heard. 

“Nei da!” cried Mette, “we are in for a storm. I 
must go and call my poor cows home. It is nearly milk- 
ing time.” 

Tante found Gerda, Katharine, and Alan standing 
together in the courtyard. 

“Ah, here comes my Ejnar,” Gerda exclaimed, as a 
lone figure came into view on the hillside. “I am thank- 
ful he has not strayed far. Solli says we are in for an 
awful storm.” 


248 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“And I see some one yonder,” Katharine said. “I 
dare say that is Professor Thornton.” 

But it proved to be the Sorenskriver. He hastened 
back to the Gaard, hurrying the loitering Ejnar on with 
him. Everyone had now returned except Clifford. The 
sky grew blacker and more threatening. There was no 
rain. Hesitating claps of thunder were heard. Knutty, 
Katharine, and some of the others gathered together on 
the verandah, which commanded the whole view of the 
valley, and watched the awe-inspiring exhibition of 
Nature’s anger. The fury of the storm broke loose. 
The lightning was blinding, the thunder terrific. Time 
after time they all thought that the Gaard must have 
been struck. At last the rain fell heavily and more 
heavily. Everyone was relieved to hear it; for the turf 
on the roofs of all the black houses and barns was as dry 
as match-wood. Everyone in different corners of the 
Gaard was keeping a look-out for Clifford. 

Knutty pretended to be philosophic, and said at in- 
tervals : 

“He is quite safe, I am sure. He has taken shelter 
somewhere. Besides, he loves a thunder-storm, the silly 
fellow! Isn’t it ridiculous? Now, 1 think the only 
pleasant place in a thunder-storm is the coal-cellar. 
I’ve found it a most consoling refuge.” 

And when Allan said : 

“I’m getting awfully anxious about father, Knutty,” 
she answered : 

“Now, really, kjaere, don’t be foolish. He can take 
care of himself. He was not born yesterday.” 

They all tried to reassure and divert the boy, all of 
them, including even Ejnar. 


KATHAKINE FKENSHAM 


249 


“If the Kemiker does not bring some treasure back 
from his long expedition,” he said, “I, for one, will have 
nothing to say to such a contemptible wretch.” 

Mor Inga came to add her word of comfort. 

“No doubt the Professor has taken shelter at that 

little lonely Saeter in the direction of F ,” she said. 

“He will be comfortable there ; and the old woman makes 
an excellent cup of coffee.” 

The storm died down. The early evening passed into 
the late evening; and still Clifford did not come. Ten 
o’clock struck, and still he did not come. At twelve 
o’clock the storm broke loose again and raged with 
redoubled fury. Knutty, Katharine, and Alan watched 
together, in Knutty’s room. They could not induce the 
boy to go to bed. He was in great distress. 

“If father would only come back,” he kept on saying, 
“if he’d only come back. If he does not come soon, I 
must go and look for him.” 

“He will not return to-night,” Katharine said. “And 
it would be useless to go out and look for him. As Mor 
Inga says, he has probably taken shelter in some Saeter, 
and there he will stay until the morning comes. Cheer 
up, Alan dear. It will be all right to-morrow.” 

It was she who finally persuaded the boy to go to bed ; 
and when she looked into his room ten minutes later, he 
was fast asleep, worn out with the emotions and anxie- 
ties of that day. Then Knutty and she watched and 
waited. 

“I should not be feeling so miserable about my poor 
iceberg,” Knutty said, “if he had gone off in a happier 
mood. But he was quite knocked over by his interview 


250 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


with the boy. It was all so much worse than he had an- 
ticipated. That was what I had feared / 5 

“But you see it is past now / 5 Katharine said, reassur- 
ing her, “I mean, the telling of it. ile will come back, 
strengthened and soothed; while Alan’s anxiety for his 
father’s safety will help to put things right . 55 

“My dear, I never thought of that , 55 Knutty exclaimed, 
with a faint glimmer of cheerfulness on her old face, 
“You leap out to those things. You’re an illuminated 
darling. That’s what you are.” 

Gerda came to see them. 

“Ejnar is fast asleep and dreaming of ‘salix , 5 55 she 
said ; “but I could not sleep, Tante. I have been think- 
ing how dreadful it would be if the Professor had been 
struck by lightning.” 

“Ah, that is what we have all been thinking, stupid 
one,” answered Tante gravely, “but we’ve had the sense 
not to say it. Go back to bed and dream of ‘salix 5 too. 
Much better for you.” 

“But I came to comfort you,” Gerda said. “You must 
not send me away. Do you know, I have been thinking 
of that song you love so much : ‘Thou who hast sorrow 
in thy heart . 5 Shall I sing to you now ?” 

Knutty nodded. 

Gerda sang, softly, softly this Danish song: 

THOU, WHO HAST SORROW IN THY HEART. 


Allegretto moderate. 



KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


251 




Knutty slept. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


B UT Katharine did not sleep. Hour after hour 
she watched by the window, straining her eyes 
into the distance. And as he still did not 
come, and the suspense became intolerable, she 
went out to find him. It was five o’clock when she left 
the Gaard, and nearly nine when she returned. 

“Has he come back ?” she asked eagerly of Gerda, who 
was standing in the porch. Gerda shook her head. 

Just then, Ole Persen, the mattress-maker, arrived at 
the Gaard on his annual round to repair the mattresses 
or make up new ones from the year’s accumulation of 
wool. Ole was the newsbringer of that part of the Gud- 
brandsdal, and, for a mattress-maker, was considered to 
be rather reliable. He would, therefore, have been quite 
useless on the staff of an Anglo-Saxon evening news- 
paper. He brought the news that over at Berg, about 
ten miles away, an Englishman had been struck dead by 
the lightning, and his body had been brought down from 
the mountains to the nearest Skyds-station (posting- 
station) . Ole said that the people over there were sure 
he was an Englishman, and the doctor had said that the 
letters in his pocket were all from England. Ole had 
not seen him; but they had told him that the dead 
stranger was a tall thin man, with thin, clean-shaven 
face. 

Mor Inga and Solli looked grave. 


KATHAKINE FBENSHAM 


253 


“Art thou sure he was an Englishman, Ole?” Mor 
Inga asked abruptly. 

“I can only tell thee what they said,” answered Ole. 

The doctor declared only an Englishman would have so 
much money in his pocket.” 

Then Mor Inga told Knutty exactly what she had 
heard, neither more nor less. 

“It may not be our Englishman,” Mor Inga said 
gently, “hut ” 

And then Knutty told the others; first Gerda and 
Katharine. 

“It may not be our Englishman,” Knutty said, look- 
ing at them bravely, “but ” 

She told Alan. 

“Kjaere,” she said, “it may not be your dear father, 
but ” 

In a few minutes Knutty, Katharine, and Alan were 
on their way to Berg. 

Solli whipped up the horses unsparingly, and admon- 
ished them with weird Norwegian words. His voice and 
the roar of the foss below were the only sounds heard; 
for at the onset no one of that anxious little company 
spoke a single syllable. They sat there with strained 
faces; they glanced at each other with silent question- 
ings, and then as quickly turned away to look with sight- 
less eyes at the country which was growing sterner and 
grimmer as the valley became narrower and shut them 
in from all generous share of sky and space. Suddenly 
there came a break in the valley, and a flood of light 
broke upon the travellers ; they breathed a sigh of relief, 
and even smiled faintly, as though that unexpected 
blessing had, for the moment, eased the overwhelming 


254 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


burden of their hearts. They passed the place where 
the church had stood before it was swept away in the 
great avalanche of a hundred years ago; and on they 
went, skirting a fine old Gaard built near a great mound 
said to be the resting-place of some renowned chieftain ; 
on they went, in their silence and suspense. The two 
women glanced from time to time at the drawn face 
opposite, and the boy felt the silent comfort of theii 
sympathy. When at last he spoke, the relief to them was 
as great as if there had been a second break in the val- 
ley. He bent forward and put his hands on their knees. 

“I don’t know what I should do without you both,” he 
said simply, and he drew back again. 

“Stakkar,” Knutty said, “two or three miles more, and 
we shall know.” 

“Oh, Knutty,” the boy cried in a sudden agony, “and 
I’ve been saying such cruel things to him, and never 
thinking about hurting him; and he went off all alone, 
and I can’t bear to think that ” 

Alan broke off ; and once more Knutty saw before her 
the solitary figure of her beloved Englishman climbing 
up the steep hillside and disappearing into the birch- 
woods. She heard his words: “It will be all right for 
me later.” Her eyes became dim; and she would have 
given way to her grief then and there, but for Katharine, 
who, notwithstanding her own great need, lent half her 
youthful courage, strength, and hopefulness to the old 
Danish woman. 

“Tante,” she said in her impulsive way, “for pity’s 
sake don’t forget that you are of Viking descent — a 
heartless, remorseless pirate, in fact.” 

There came a faint smile on the old Dane’s face. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


255 


“Thank you for reminding me of my ancestors, 
kjaere,” she said. 

“And besides,” continued Katharine, “we may yet find 
another break in the valley. We may find that all our 
fears have been only the fears of love and anxiety.” 

“Do you really, really think that?” the boy cried, 
turning to her with passionate eagerness. 

“Yes, Alan,” she answered, without flinching. 

So she buoyed them up, and heartened herself as well, 
although she was saying to herself all the time : 

“Oh, my love, my love, if it be indeed you lying there 
in the silence of death, then my womanhood lies buried 
with my girlhood.” 

At last the horses drew up at the entrance of an old 
Gaard which was also the Skyds-station of that district. 
Solli had called out immediately, and a young woman in 
the Gudbrandsdal dress stepped into the courtyard. 

“Yes, yes, stakkar, he lies upstairs,” she said, glancing 
sympathetically at the three travellers. “Come, I will 
lead the way.” 

They passed up the massive stairs outside the old 
house, and reached the covered verandah. She pointed 
to a door at the end of the passage. 

“That is the room,” she said gently ; and with the fine 
understanding of the true Norwegian peasant, she left 
them. 

Katharine put a detaining hand on Knutty and Alan. 

“Shall I go in first and come and tell you ?” she asked. 
“I am the stranger. It should be easier for me.” 

But they shook their heads, clung to her closer, and 
so all three passed into the room together. The room 
was not darkened; but sweet juniper-leaves had been 


256 


KATHAKINE FKENSHAM 


spread over the floor. Katharine led them like two little 
stricken children to the bed of death: one of them a 
child indeed, and the other an old woman of seventy, 
childlike in her need of protecting help. 

Then Katharine bent forward, and with trembling 
hands reverently lifted the covering from the dead 
man’s face — and they looked. 

A cry rose to their lips. 

The dead man was not their beloved one. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


L IKE children, too, Katharine led them from the 
room and took them into the old Peise-stue 
below. Tante had, for the time being, forgot- 
ten her Viking origin. Her nerve completely 
forsook her; and she cried abundantly, from the strain 
and the merciful loosening of the tension. Once she 
smiled through her tears as she pressed Katharine’s hand 
and gave Alan a reassuring nod. 

“Ak,” she said, “this is not the correct behaviour of an 
abandoned sea-robber, is it?” And to Alan she added 
quaintly : 

“Don’t I make a beautiful comforter, kjaere? Ought 
not I to be proud of myself ?” 

He made no answer, but came close to her, to show 
that she was a comforting presence. He was painfully 
quiet ; indeed, he seemed half -bewildered, and Katharine, 
glancing at his ashen face, knew that he was still under 
the spell of death’s mysterious majesty. She wished that 
they had not suffered him to go into that room of death ; 
and yet he would never have been satisfied to remain 
outside and take their word; it was perhaps his own 
father lying there, and he had to see for himself. But 
that part of it was over ; and she felt she must break the 
spell for him at once. She thought of scores of things 
to say ; but nothing seemed suitable. Suddenly, without 
thinking, she said: 


258 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“I know it sounds dreadfully prosaic ; but I believe we 
should all be better for some food. I am famished. Do 
go and ask that nice woman if we can have breakfast, 
Alan.” 

The old Peise-stue in which they were sitting, was a 
typical old Norwegian room, with its quaint painted 
furniture, its sideboard adorned with inscriptions, its 
Peise in the corner, fitted up in true old fashion with a 
shelf on the top, which was furnished with carved and 
painted jugs and bowls. There was, of course, a recess 
in the wall for the Langeleik, and a queer little cupboard 
for the housewife’s keys. Old carved and painted 
mangles (manglebret), marriage gifts to several genera- 
tions, hung on the walls. The Kubbe-stul,* made from 
a solid block of wood, stood in the comer. At any other 
time Katharine and Knutty would have been deeply 
interested in seeing this characteristic old place. But 
now they scarcely noticed it. They sat together looking 
at nothing, and awaiting in silence the boy’s return. 

He came back with a different expression on his face. 

“It’s all right,” he said. “We can have breakfast. 
I’m awfully hungry, too.” 

“So am I,” said Tante, and in a few minutes the ser- 
vant in her pretty costume of red bodice, white sleeves, 
and black skirt edged with green, served them a good 
meal of trout, fladbrod and admirable flodemelk (milk 
with cream). 

“Ripping, isn’t it?” Katharine said, nodding approv- 
ingly to Alan. 

“Ripping,” he answered, always so glad and proud of 
her camaraderie. 


Kubbe-stul, a chair cut out of one solid piece of wood. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


259 


“And now you’ll go back to the Gaard,” she went on, 
“and I believe you will find your father waiting for you 
there, Alan. This was a false alarm of danger; and I 
cannot think there is any more trouble in store.” 

“Do you really think that ?” they both said to her. 

“Yes,” she answered, touched beyond words by their 
pathetic dependence on her. “I believe he will come 
down from the mountains, and that you will find him 
safe and sound.” 

“But you will be there too?” Alan said anxiously. 
And Knutty also said : 

“But you will be there too ?” 

“I shall be with you in spirit,” Katharine said ; ‘fi)ut, 
you see, my place is here, upstairs, Knutty, with that 
dead Englishman, lying lonely and uncared-for in 8 
strange land. I could not go away until I, as an Eng- 
lishwoman, had done something on his behalf : watched 
by him a little, written to his people — done something 
to show him that our gratitude to him for not being — 
ours — had passed into gentle concern for him and his.” 

Her voice faltered for the first time that morning 
when she paused at the word “ours.” 

“So you will go back without me,” she said, “but you 
will tell Professor Thornton why I stayed behind. He 
will understand.” 

“Ah,” said Knutty, looking at her lovingly, “you Eng- 
lish people have the true secret of nationality.” 

So they left her there, sadly enough ; yet knowing that, 
for the moment, her place was not with them, to whom 
she had already been so much, but with her dead coun- 
tryman upstairs. Knutty, with many tender instruc- 


260 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


tions, gave her into the charge of the people of the 
house. Solli ? s last words as he drove off, were : 

“Take care of the English lady. Send her safely back 
in your best carriole.” 

Katharine stood Watching the carriage until it was out 
of sight; and then a great longing and loneliness seized 
her. The music and words of Gerda’s Swedish song 
suddenly came into her remembrance : 

The lover whom thou lov’st so well, 

Thou shalt reach him never — ah . . ah . . . 

And the wail of despair at the end of the verse smote as 
a piercing blast on her spirit. 

“Yes,” she said, “he will come down from the moun- 
tains, and the joy of reunion will be theirs, and I shall 
be outside of it — outside of it as always. Always outside 
the heart of things.” 

She went slowly up the stairs; but when she reached 
the threshold where the dead man was lying alone and 
as yet unmourned, she had forgotten herself and her own 
personal life. 

She uncovered his face once more. There was the 
burnt mark where the lightning had passed through his 
brain. She tried to hide it with his hair. His eyes were 
closed ; but she laid her gentle hands on each of them : 
so that his own countrywoman, and not a foreigner, 
should be the one to put the last seal of sightlessness on 
them. She drew a soft little handkerchief from her 
satchel, and spread it over his face. Then she glanced 
through the letters and papers which had been found on 
him, and she discovered his name and his home-address 
in Cornwall. He was a soldier, captain in one of the 
line-regiments. Probably he had been out in South 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


261 


Africa. Yes, there was a letter addressed to him at 
Bloemfontein. Katharine’s sympathy deepened. 

“Even more willingly do I watch by him/’ she said. 

As there was no evidence of where he had come from 
in Norway, and as the people of the Skyds-station had 
not even begun to make active inquiries, she telegraphed 
to his Cornish address, and also to two or three of the 
sanatoria in the more mountainous part of the country. 
No answer came ; and meantime she watched by his side, 
weaving from some forget-me-nots and berries a garland, 
which she placed at his feet. It was no strain to her to 
be giving her companionship to the dead. Katharine was 
fearless of life, and fearless of death, fearless of the liv- 
ing, fearless of the dead. Her mind wandered back to 
her own dead : her mother whom she had loved passion- 
ately and lost as a young girl : her girlhood’s lover, whom 
she had lost when she was scarcely twenty: her school- 
friend, whom she had laid to rest ten years past. When 
each of them had died, she had said : “This is the end of 
everything for me.” But she knew that those words had 
been no truer for her at thirty than at thirteen, and that 
the only end of life itself, and therefore of life’s thrill, 
was death itself; and then was that the end? Was there 
immortality — and what was immortality? Was it, as 
some one had once told her, merely the natural persist- 
ence under different conditions of the temperamentally 
strong ? Not necessarily the persistence of the good, but 
of the masterful ? She thought of all the forceful people 
she had known, and she could not believe in their oblit- 
eration ; somehow, somewhere they would surely continue 
their individual processes for good or for bad. She 
thought of all the half-toned, colorless people she had 


262 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


known, who scarcely seemed to have any life in them in 
this life. Was it reasonable to suppose that there could 
be any continuance of their feeble outlines ? 

She recalled a conversation she had had with an em- 
bittered man in Arizona. He had scoffed at everything : 
at life, at love, at patriotism, at death, at immortality. 

“Belief in immortality !” he had cried. “Why, it is 
just a typical bit of selfishness, that’s all. We want im- 
mortality for ourselves and for those we love. But we 
do not want it for those we hate. We do not want it for 
those who interfere with us. We may pretend to have the 
principle of it implanted in our hearts ; but all we really 
care about is the off-shoot — the personal application of 
it to our own individual needs.” 

She remembered she had said to him : 

“Yes, but the people hated by us are loved by other 
people; so that all the thousands and thousands of per- 
sonal applications create the great principle, surely ?” 

She remembered his answer : 

“That is not logical,” he had said. 

“Logical!” she had replied. “What a word to use 
about the great mysteries of life and death. Learn to 
love someone. Then you will not crave to be logical 
about immortality ; you will only crave to believe in it.” 

He had laughed at her ; but two years later he wrote : 

“Since seeing you, I have loved and have lost my love. 
I buried her in the little canon not far from my ranch, 
I find myself turning, spite of myself, to a belief in 
immortality, whatever that may be.” 

Whatever that may be. That was the whole mystery 
which the reasoning of all the finest brains in the world’s 
history had failed to unravel. Love, itself a great mys- 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


263 


tery, had done more. Was it possible that love, itself a 
mystery, and yet a key to many of life’s perplexing prob- 
lems, might prove to be the only key to the problems of 
death ? 

These thoughts passed through Katharine’s mind as 
she watched over the dead. 

Once she turned in her impulsive way to that silent 
companion : 

"If you could only tell us what you have found !” she 
cried. 

And then she recalled to her mind something which 
a great chemist and thinker had said in her presence: 

"Some day,” he had said, "we may stumble across the 
natural means of communication with the dead, and, like 
all other great discoveries, it will seem simple. The 
difficulties are insuperable in the present state of knowl- 
edge among the living; and the dead have to recover 
from the shock of death, and to find readjustment to 
altered conditions of existence. But there is all Time in 
which to work out the discovery ; and there is always the 
chance that we may find out the great truth by an acci- 
dent of detail in our researches and reflections.” 

“But the dead have to recover from the shock of 
death ." What was it he meant ? Death was a shock to 
the nervous system of the living ; but to the dead them- 
selves surely it was . Ah, that was just the whole 

mystery; and the chemist, the philosopher, the poet, the 
musician, the explorer, the priest, and herself, an ordi- 
nary unilluminated person of average intelligence — all 
were mere surmisers — mere surmisers. 

The door was gently opened, and Katharine, leaving 
with a sigh of relief the regions of surmise, came back 


264 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


to actual life; for, first and foremost, she was human, 
and the earth was her territory. The woman of the 
Gaard said something to her, and beckoned to her. 
Katharine followed her out of the room, and tried to 
understand what she was saying; but could only gather 
the words: “To Engelske” (two Englishmen). The 
woman, who seemed greatly harassed, took her straight 
to the “Peise-stue,” pointed in a despairing way to two 
men, said, “Engelsk,” and hurried off, holding her hands 
to her head, as though things were too much for her. 
Katharine saw two Englishmen sitting warming them- 
selves before the fire. They turned round as she came 
in ; and she noticed at a glance that the elder of the two 
was the exact image of the dead man upstairs. 

“Then you got my telegram,” she said, thinking at 
once of the telegram which she had sent off to three of 
the mountain-sanatoria. 

“Telegram?” said the elder man, looking at her in a 
puzzled way. “What telegram ? Fve had no telegram ; 
could have had no telegram. I, my friend, and my 
brother, have been out in the mountains fishing ; but my 
brother left us. The storm came on ; he did not return, 
and we made our way down here, hoping to find him, or 
get some news of him. Perhaps you can tell us some- 
thing; for the woman of the house does not understand 
a word we say, and we don’t understand her. We are 
quite bewildered ; and so is she.” 

Katharine looked at the two Englishmen, and saw that 
they were worn out; wet through, and hopelessly at a 
loss. Her protective instincts for those who were in 
trouble, leapt up within her. She was not going to 
suffer these tired fellows to have any unnecessary shock 


KATHAKINE EKENSHAM 


265 


and so she took the precaution of asking the elder man 
his name. 

It was the name of the dead man upstairs. 

Then in the gentlest manner possible, as though she 
had known this stranger years instead of minutes, Kath- 
arine broke the sad news to him. 


CHAPTER XV. 


W HEN Clifford said good-bye to Knutty and 
passed out of sight into the birch-woods, 
he had no intention of going in any 
definite direction. He wished to get on to 
the heights somewhere and be alone with Nature, that 
tender nurse who is ever waiting to hold out her healing 
hands to the sick of body and of spirit. She had never 
failed him, and he knew that she would not fail him 
now ; that she would minister to him in her own beau- 
tiful, strengthening way, until she had made him whole ; 
putting balm on stinging wounds and exchanging his 
cup of bitterness for a phial of courage. He had always 
loved her, always sought her out, always laid everything 
before her and learnt from her, over and over again, the 
relative value and the actual size of the difficulties which 
life presented to him. He had carried out to her some 
burden which seemed enormous, and brought it back 
from her so shrunk that he would scarcely have known 
it for his burden ; rather for some one else’s load, which 
is always deemed lighter. So he went to seek her help. 
He strolled through the birch-woods, scarcely noticing 
where he trod ; gained the open slopes, and then climbed 
slowly in the direction of a little isolated Saeter which 
commanded a view of the fine Rondane mountains. He 
paused now and then, and dug his stick into the springy 
moss and the stunted juniper bushes. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 267 

“The boy always loved me/’ he said bitterly. “And 
now ?” 

And Nature said: 

“He will love you again .” 

“Ever since the little fellow could find his way about, 
he wanted to be with me” he said bitterly. “And now ?” 

And Nature said : 

“He will want to be with you again.” 

“It is all so much worse than I thought,” the man 
said bitterly. “At the very worst I thought that he 
might have believed I had been unkind to Marianne. 
But •” 

And Nature said: 

“He did not know what he did believe. The tiny cone 
of disbelief had grown into one of my giant forest-trees. 
But now we have hewn down that giant-tree, used it to 
defeat itself, and made a strong bridge of it, over which 
the boy passes to reach you again.” 

“Passes back to me as he was before ?” the man asked. 

And Nature said: 

“No, no, passes forward, onward to meet you at an- 
other point. For you, too, have passed on.” 

“Ah,” cried the man, “I have been forgetting him. 
All my thoughts have been for her — and this is my just 
punishment, that in the midst of my selfish happiness I 
should be wounded in my tenderest affections, and re- 
minded of the bitter past — reminded of the manner of 
Marianne’s death and my share in it.” 

“Morbid conscientiousness, morbid conscientiousness,” 
Nature said. “Often have you and I fought out that 
battle together; fought it out at midnight on the moors 
and on the mountains, and along the lonely country 


268 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


roads. And now we must fight it out again; here, this 
very moment, with the Rondane in front of us, and the 
snow-peaks in the distance, and the great Gudbrandsdal 
spread out below us.” 

So they fought it out, and it was a hard battle, a hand- 
to-hand fight; for the man was stubborn and prepared 
to defend his fortress of self-reproach and sadness to the 
bitter end. But Nature gathered together all her forces 
— and conquered. 

And when the dire battle was over, she held out her 
hands to him and ministered to him ; at her bidding the 
bracing mountain air sent currents of fresh life into the 
man’s body; the great expanse sent a thrill of freedom 
into his soul; the magnificence of earth and sky sent a 
thrill of gratitude and gladness into his spirit. 

“The earth is beautiful and life is splendid !” he cried, 
as he lifted up his head, and passed on his way. 

“Ah,” said Nature softly. 

“The boy loves me!” he cried. “We shall have a 
closer friendship than before.” 

“Ah,” said Nature gently. 

“I have the right to love her !” he cried. “I shall seek 
her out and tell her everything.” 

“Ah,” said Nature softly. 

“Yes,” the man cried. “I shall tell her everything 
about my poor Marianne’s death. She has a great heart 
and a noble mind. She will understand. My beautiful 
love ” 

“Ah,” said Nature tenderly. “I can safely leave him 
now — conquered and renewed.” 

And yet she paused for a moment, fearful to leave his 
side until she was certain that the child whom she had 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


269 


always loved had reached a firm foothold of healthy 
human instincts. 

“My beautiful love !” he cried. “You understood from 
the very beginning and came to warn me of Mrs. Stan- 
hope’s slanderous tongue. I little guessed what she was 
capable of saying to my boy; but you knew, and did not 
shrink from me.” 

Then, as his thoughts turned to Mrs. Stanhope, anger 
and indignation took possession of him. 

“I will go and find her now,” he cried. “I will find 
my way over the mountains somehow, and see her face to 
face.” 

“Ah,” said Nature, smiling, “I can leave him now in 
the safe keeping of human love and healthy human 
anger.” 

So she left his immediate presence, and he became 
unconscious of his surroundings, and tramped across the 
rough mountainous country determined to reach Mrs. 
Stanhope. He did not notice the signs in the heavens; 
the gathering storm gave him no warning; or at least 
no warning reached him. The storm broke loose at last, 
and aroused him to the knowledge that he was miles 
away from the Gaard, lost on the mountains, and alone 
with Nature in her wildest mood. The heavens were in 
raging tumult; the thunder was terrific; the lightning 
appalling. At first there was no rain. The man leaned 
against a rock and watched the awful splendour of the 
scene ; watched the opening of the clouds and the passing 
of the lightning. It held him spell-bound, entranced. 
He had always loved to be out in a great storm. He 
stood there, an unconscious target for its fury, and noth- 
ing harmed him ; the lightning played around him, tore 


270 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


up the ground within a few yards of his feet; withered 
up a stunted juniper-bush within reach of his arm. 
Nature working harm and bringing sorrow in other 
directions, spared him to those who loved him and were 
waiting for him. 

So he stood, confronting the storm, with all personal 
thoughts and emotions in abeyance. But when the rain 
poured down in torrents, he began to think of finding 
shelter, and remembered that he had passed a lonely 
little Saeter. He had only a vague idea of his bearings ; 
and, indeed, without knowing it, as he tried to retrace 
his way, he was wandering farther away, both from that 
Saeter and from the Gaard. 

He became distressed about the anxiety which his 
prolonged absence would be causing to his friends: to 
dear old Knutty who had seen him start off so sadly: 
to his boy : to Katharine. He knew that they were wait- 
ing for him, and wanting him, and that they were 
watching the storm and watching the evening fading 
into the night. He knew so well that Knutty would 
pretend not to be troubled, and would scold everyone 
who even suggested that there might be cause for anxiety. 
He almost heard her saying : 

“He loves a thunder-storm. The silly fellow, I know 
him well !” 

He smiled as he thought of her. 

“My dear old Dane !” he said. “My dear old brick of 
a Dane 

He wandered on and on trying to find the Saeter; 
changing his direction several times, but in vain. But 
at last he caught sight of a habitation at some distance, 
and made straight for it, thankful to have found a haven, 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


271 


There was a light in the hut. Clifford knocked, and the 
door was instantly opened. There was a fire in the stove. 

“Ak,” said the old woman, who opened the door, “I 
thought it was my son. But you are welcome. It is a 
fearful night. Many times I thought the hut was struck. 
I am glad for company.” 

The son came in a few minutes afterwards, and she 
made hot coffee for them both, whilst they dried them- 
selves before the crackling logs. And overcome by the 
genial warmth, and his long wanderings, Clifford slept. 

And he dreamed of Katharine. He dreamed that he, 
who had always found speech difficult, was able to tell 
her the story of Marianne’s death. He dreamed that he 
went on telling her, and she went on listening, and it 
was such an easy matter to tell, that he only wondered 
he had been silent so long. 

“And that is all,” he said, and he waited for her to 
speak as she turned her dear face towards him. But 
when she was beginning to speak, he awoke. 

He awoke, glad, and strong. He who had come out 
broken and embittered, was going back made whole and 
sound. He thought of his last words to Knutty : 

“I shall be better later.” 

They had come true. The long wrestle with morbid 
conscientiousness, his defeat, his wanderings, the great 
storm, the safe arrival at a haven, his dream, and now 
his glad awakening had made him whole. 

The storm had died down about two in the morning, 
and it was nearly six before he awoke. He could scarcely 
wait to drink the coffee which the old woman prepared 
for him ; scarcely wait to hear her directions for getting 


272 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


back to the Gaard. He was off like some impatient boy 
before she had finished telling him. 

His step was brisk, his heart was light, his grave face 
was smiling. He sang. He did not notice that the way 
was long and rough. Everything in life seemed easy to 
him. He trod on air. At last after several hours, he 
saw the smoke of the Solli Gaard. He hastened through 
the birch-woods, down the hillside, and into the court- 
yard. There was a group of people standing round the 
carriage which had evidently just come back from a 
journey. Mor Inga and Gerda were helping Knutty out 
of the carriage. Ejnar, Alan, and the Sorenskriver, 
Solli, Ragnhild, and everyone belonging to the Gaard, 
including old Kari, crowded round her. 

“Thank God, thank God, it was not he,” she was say- 
ing. 

Then old Kari looked up and saw Clifford. She firmly 
believed him to be dead, and thought this was his 
ghost. 

“Aa Josses !” she cried, falling down on her knees and 
folding her hands in prayer. 

They all turned and saw him. Alan rushed forward 
to meet his father. 

“Oh, father,” the boy cried; “we thought you were 
dead, killed by the lightning.” 

Then his pent-up feelings found their freedom in an 
outburst of passionate, healing tears. Clifford folded 
him in his arms and comforted him. 

“And you cared so much?” the father asked, with a 
thrill of gladness. 

“Yes, yes !” the boy whispered, clinging close to him. 

Then arm in arm they came to Knutty, who, in her 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


273 


unselfishness had stood back, wanting her two icebergs to 
have their meeting to themselves. 

“Dear one,” she said, with tears in her eyes, “I have 
done all my crying, and everyone can tell you that I 
have behaved disgracefully. And now I can do my 
scolding. How dared you give us so much anxiety? 
Ak, it is all too much for me. Fm going to cry after 
all” 

He stooped and kissed her hand. 

“Don’t scold me, and don’t cry, dear Knutty,” he said. 
“I have come back from the mountains strong and 
glad.” 

They all pressed round him, greeting him warmly. 
Everyone belonging to the Gaard seemed to him to be 
there, except Katharine. And he hungered for the sight 
of her. 

“Knutty,” he asked, “where is she — where is Miss 
Frensham ?” 

Knutty led him away and told him in broken words 
the history of the morning, and their fearful anxiety, 
and Katharine’s tender kindness. 

“And she stayed there with the dead Englishman,” 
Knutty said gently. “She said she could not leave him 
alone, and that you would understand. She said you 
would come down safely from the mountains, and the 
joy of reunion would be ours, and that she would be 
with us in spirit. I know, kjaere, she suffered greatly 
in staying behind.” 

The man’s lip quivered. 

“I will go to her,” he said. 

And the next moment he had prevailed on Solli to 
change the horses and let Jens come with him. It was 


274 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


all done so quickly that Solli had no time to relent. 
Clifford sprang in, signed to Alan, to follow him, and 
they were off. Old Kari, rather sullen at having been 
done out of the ghost, retired crestfallen to the cow- 
house. 

But Gerda and Tante, Mor Inga and Ragnhild stood 
watching the carriage until it had wound round the hill 
and was out of sight. 

“Na,” said Gerda, turning to Tante, “I begin to think 
that your Englishman is going to fall in love with 
Froken Frensham. Who would have imagined such a 
thing ?” 

“Everyone except you,” replied Tante, giving her a 
hug. 

“And why not myself ?” asked Gerda. 

“Because you are an unilluminated botanical duffer !” 
answered Tante. 


CHAPTEE XVI. 


K ATHAEINE lingered a little while longer at 
the Skyds-station to comfort, by her sym- 
pathetic presence, the brother and friend of 
the dead Englishman. To the end of their 
lives they remembered her ministration. She gave out 
to them royally in generous fashion. It was nothing to 
her that they were strangers; it was everything to her 
that they were in trouble and needed a little human 
kindness. They themselves had forgotten that they 
were strangers to her. It was a pathetic tribute to her 
powers of sympathy that they both spoke of the dead 
man as if she had known him. 

“You remember,” the brother said, “he never did care 
for fishing. It always bored him, didn’t it ?” 

“Yes,” said Katharine gently. 

“Do you remember him saying a few years ago,” the 
friend said, “that he should love to die on the moun- 
tains? He always lloved the mountains.” 

“Yes,” said Katharine gently. 

She scarcely had the heart to leave them; but at last 
she rose to go, telling them there was an Englishman at 
the Solli Gaard who spoke Norwegian well, and who 
would come to help them. 

“He is the one for whom we came to seek here,” she 
said, looking away from them. “We are not yet sure 
that he is safe; but if he comes down from the moun- 
tains, I know he will hasten to help you about ” 


276 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


They bowed their heads silently as she broke off. 

“We shall take him home to England,” the brother 
said. 

“I am glad he will rest in his own country,” Katharine 
answered. 

The people of the Skyds-station fulfilled their promise 
to Solli, and put Katharine in their best carriole. The 
two strangers helped her to get in, and then stood 
watching her. They could not speak. But when she 
held out her hand in farewell greeting, each man took 
it, and reverently kissed it. She was touched by their 
silent gratitude, and the tears came into her eyes. 

“I am so thankful I stayed behind,” she said. 

Then the driver, a little fellow of about twelve years 
old, whipped up the yellow pony, and the Skyds-station 
was soon out of sight. 

“And now, if indeed he has come back, I shall see 
him,” Katharine thought, with a thrill of happiness. 

At the Skyds-station when, by her own choice, she 
was left alone, she had, for the moment, felt the bitter- 
ness of being outside everything. She remembered her 
own words : 

“He will come down from the mountains, and the joy 
of reunion will be theirs, and I shall be outside of it — 
outside of it as always. Always outside the heart of 
things.” 

That moment had been only one of the many times 
of passing sadness and bitterness in Katharine’s life, 
when she had said and felt that she was outside every- 
thing ; outside the inner heart of friendship which never 
fails, outside ambitious achievement, outside the region 
of great gifts, great talents, outside the magic world 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


277 


of imagination, outside love. Her friend had died, her 
girlhood’s lover had died, her brother had failed her. 
She was alone, a solitary spectator of other people’s 
close friendships, passionate love, successful work, ab- 
sorbing careers; alone, outside the barrier which sepa- 
rates all restless yearning spirits from that dim Land 
of Promise; alone, outside. She, ever unconscious of 
her own genius of giving, had no means of knowing 
that, by a mysterious dispensation, those who give of 
themselves royally, without measure, are destined to go 
out alone into the darkness of the night; alone, outside 
everything in life. 

But no such sad reflections came to Katharine now, 
as she sped along the narrow valley, by the side of the 
glacier-river. Her thoughts turned to Clifford and 
Knutty and Alan in loving unselfishness. 

“The boy will have seen his dear father, and will now 
be comforted,” she said. 

“Knutty will have seen her Englishman, and will now 
raise her old head again,” she said. 

“Ah, how I hope and hope he was there to receive them 
when they got back to the Gaard,” she said. 

“And now I shall see him, and the joy of reunion will 
be mine,” she said. 

But in the midst of her happy thoughts and yearnings, 
she did not forget those two lonely compatriots and 
that silent companion in the bedroom of the Skyds- 
station. 

“My poor strangers,” she said, “we will not forsake 
you.” 

They had come to the place where the sudden break 


278 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


in the valley had cheered them during that terrible drive 
of the morning. 

“Ah,” thought Katharine, “that gave us hope this 
morning. I should recognise this spot anywhere on 
earth. It was here I began to have a strong belief that 
it could not be he lying dead at the Skyds-station.” 

“Oh,” she thought, with a shudder, “if it had been he 
< — if it had been he !” 

i And her own words echoed back to her as an answer : 

“My womanhood would be buried with my girlhood.” 

Then she looked up and saw a carriage in the dis- 
tance, in the far distance. The boy also saw it. As it 
approached nearer, he said : 

“It is from the Solli Gaard. That is J ens driving.” 

Katharine’s heart gave a sudden bound. 

“Haste, haste !” she said excitedly to the boy ; and he, 
moved by her eagerness, urged on the little yellow pony, 
which rose to the occasion and flew over the ground. 

Carriage and carriole drew up at the same moment, 
and Katharine saw face to face the man whom she 
loved. 

“.We came to fetch you,” he said. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


B EDSTEFAR had been dead for three days, and 
it had been arranged that the funeral was to 
take place a week after the night of his death. 
Preparations had been going steadily forward, 
interrupted only by the anxiety and excitement caused 
by Clifford’s long absence in the mountains and his sup- 
posed death. Bedstemor herself had been much troubled 
about him, and had spent a good deal of time watching 
for him. But when he returned safely, she felt free to 
continue her persecutions in the kitchen; and it took a 
great amount of Knutty’s craftiness to entice her into 
the porch and keep her there. Bedstemor was aston- 
ishingly well, seemed in excellent spirits, and in answer 
to questions as to how she felt, she always said briskly : 
“Bra’, bra’, meget bra’” (Well, very well). 

Indeed, she was not a little gratified to be once more 
the central figure of circumstances, as in the old days, 
before she and her husband had retired to the dower- 
house. But, spite of her cheerfulness, she looked a 
pathetic old figure wandering about, relieved from con- 
stant attendance at her sick husband’s bedside, and thus 
thrown on the little outside world for distraction and 
company. Tante was endlessly kind to her, but had 
many a secret laugh over the old widow’s unfunereal 
attitude of mind, and over her stubborn determination 
to go and bully everyone in the kitchen. Tante herself 


280 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


was in great form again. She had recovered from her 
fears and tears, and had, so she told Katharine, regained 
her -usual Viking bearing. 

“Never shall I forget your tenderness, dear one,” she 
said to Katharine. “If I loved him even a hundred 
times more than I do, I should not grudge him to you. 
He loves you, and you are the right aura for him. And 
some day he will tell you so, although it will not be very 
soon, stupid fellow! He will try and try many times, 
and leave off suddenly. . I know him well, my prisoner 
of silence. Ah, these reserved people ! What a nuisance 
they are to themselves, and everyone else. But to them- 
selves — ak, ak, poor devils !” 

Katharine, who was standing at the time on Knutty’s 
bedroom-balcony, looked out into the distance. She 
herself had been somewhat silent since that sad morning 
at the Skyds-station. 

“The end of it all will be, dear one,” Knutty continued 
recklessly, “that you will have to help him. This sort 
of man always has to be helped, otherwise he goes on 
beginning and leaving off suddenly until Doomsday. I 
know the genus well.” 

Katharine went away. 

“Aha,” said Knutty, to herself, “I have said too much. 
And, after all, it is premature. Oh, these parish-clocks ! 
Why, Marianne has only been dead about a year. How 
like her, only to have been dead about a year ! Nei, da, 
what a wicked old woman I am !” 

She called Katharine and Katharine came. 

“Kjaere,” she said, as she stroked Katharine’s hand 
lovingly. “I have always been a freelance with my 
naughty old tongue. No one with any sense takes any 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


281 


notice of me. And am I not funny and human too? 
All this time I have only been thinking that you are the 
right aura for my Clifford. Not once have I asked 
myself whether my Clifford were the right aura for you ! 
Ah, I should have made an ideal mother, always on the 
alert to snatch up all the best things for those I loved, 
regardless of other people’s feelings and interests. Ah, 
that is right, you are smiling and not angry with your 
Viking friend. And, dear one, that reminds me again 
of how you comforted me when I was not behaving like 
a Viking. Do you remember assuring me that his 
absence, and Alan’s anxiety for him, were working for 
their complete reconciliation? Your words have come 
beautifully true, haven’t they? Well, you have the great 
heart that knows.” 

They were a small party at the Gaard now. Ejnar 
had gone off to Kongsvold in the Dovre mountains, a 
district specially interesting to botanists as the habitat 
of certain plants not found elsewhere. Gerda would 
have gone with him, but that she had sprained her ankle. 
She fretted for her Ejnar, although she pretended that 
his absence was a great relief. 

“It is grand to be free at last!” she said to Tante. 
“Free at last. I can now take a long breath.” 

“Yes,” said Tante smiling mischievously, “freedom is 
delightful when it does not make your nose red and your 
eyes moist!” 

Alan had gone off with Jens to a mountain-lake to 
catch trout for the funeral, and would not be back for a 
day or two ; and Clifford was away at the Skyds-station, 
helping the two strangers to make the necessary arrange- 
ments for taking their sad burden home to England. All 


282 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


the other guests except the Sorenskriver had left, and he 
was in a thoroughly disagreeable mood, grumbling about 
the food, and annoyed because there was going to be a 
funeral at the Gaard. 

“Then why not go away ?” Katharine suggested on 
one occasion, when his martyrdom had reached an acute 
stage. 

“Thank you, I choose to stay,” he answered, in his 
gruffest tone of voice. 

Katharine laughed. She liked the Sorenskriver even 
at his worst. 

“Read this German newspaper with a whole column of 
abuse against England,” Katharine said, teasing him. 
“That will make you feel cheerful, Sorenskriver.” 

“Sniksnak !” said the Sorenskriver a little less roughly. 

“Or come out for a walk with me and help me pick 
multebaer,” she added. “Mor Inga was saying she had 
not half enough as yet.” 

“Perhaps I will come,” he answered, with a grim smile 
on his face. He took pleasure in Katharine’s company, 
and was secretly delighted that Clifford was busy helping 
those Englishmen over at the Skyds-station. In this 
way he got Katharine to himself, and he sat smoking 
his long pipe in the porch, grumbling and disagreeable, 
but, in justice it must be owned, gentle to Bedstemor. 
Tante declared that he was courting Katharine. 

“I am given to understand, dear one,” she said, with 
a twinkle in her eye, “that the Norwegian way of court- 
ing is to be extremely disagreeable, and almost rude to 
the person whom you adore. In a day or two you will 
have a proposal — and what then ?” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


283 


“Tante thinks only about marriages,” Gerda said 
reproachfully. 

“Well, what else in the world is there to think about?” 
Tante asked defiantly. 

“Oh, Tante, you know you do not think that,” Gerda 
said. “If you really thought that, why didn't you get 
married yourself ?” 

“Because, kjaere, no one would have me, except a 
sea-captain, and he was mad,” Knutty answered. “And 
he killed his mate soon afterwards. I was always glad 
I was not his mate !” 

“It is not true,” Gerda said, turning indignantly to 
Katharine. “She had lots of admirers and lovers. You 
ask her Englishman. He knows.” 

“Ah,” said Knutty, “perhaps I did have a few ad- 
mirers in my time ! You may be sure no sane woman 
would ever say she had never had any, unless there was 
someone at hand to deny her statement.” 

When Clifford came home that evening, Knutty her- 
self broached the subject again. 

“Kjaere,” she said, “did I have a few admirers in my 
time, or did I not? I have forgotten. Not that a 
woman ever does forget, but tell me !” 

“You had numbers, Knutty,” Clifford answered, smil- 
ing at her ; “and I was jealous of them all. At nine I 
was jealous of the sea-captain, and at ten I was jealous 
of the clergyman in Jutland, and at twelve of the Eng- 
lish architect, and at thirteen of the Swedish officer, and 
so on and so on.” 

Later in the evening, when he and Katharine were 
sitting alone near the great hay-barn, Katharine spoke 
of Knutty. 


284 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“She is the dearest old woman I have ever met/’ she 
said warmly. “I don’t wonder that yon all love her.” 

“I can never tell yon what she has been to me/’ he 

answered. “It was always a great grief to me that ” 

He broke off. 

“It was a great grief to me that ” 

Again he broke off. He was trying to speak of 
Knutty’s indifference to Marianne; and even this was 
too hard for him to say. IJp in the mountains, he had 
felt that it would be easy for him to tell Katharine 
everything that he had in his heart, beginning with the 
story of Marianne and Marianne’s death, and ending 
with himself and his love for her. But now that he was 
near her, he could say nothing about his own personal 
life and inner feelings. He could only bend forward 
and scratch a hole in the ground with his stick. Katha- 
rine remembered how Knutty had spoken of his “begin- 
nings” and “breakings off,” and she said : 

“Knutty understands you through and through, Pro- 
fessor Thornton. Doesn’t he?” 

“Yes,” he answered simply. “But why should you 
say that just now ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Katharine answered. “I was 
thinking of her, and it came into my head. And I was 
so touched by her grief when she feared that she — we — 
had lost you.” 

“I do not know what she and the boy would have done 
without you,” he said, still working with that stick. 

Katharine was silent. 

“And I cannot think what those men over at the 
Skyds-station would have done without you,” he said. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


285 


“Their last words to me this afternoon, were : ‘Tell her 
we shall always be wishing to serve her / 99 

Katharine remained silent. 

“There was this little packet which I was to give you,” 
he said, after a pause. “It was the poor fellow’s South 
African service-medal. You were to have it.” 

He watched her as she opened the packet and touched 
the medal. He watched her as she put it in the palm of 
her hand and looked at it with dim eyes. It would 
have been easy for him to have opened his heart to her 
then and there, if he could only have known that she was 
saying to him with speechless tongue : 

“My own dear love, whilst I am looking at this sol- 
dier’s medal, my heart is giving thanks that the light- 
ning spared you to me.” 

But he could not guess that, and the moment passed. 

The next day when they were again alone, he at- 
tempted to speak. 

“Ho you remember my saying up at the Saeter that I 
tried never to dream ?” he began. 

“Yes,” she said. “I have always wished to ask you 
why you should feel so strongly about dreams.” 

“I should like to tell you,” he said eagerly. “I want 
to tell 3 r ou. But ” 

He broke off again and turned to her with a pathetic 
smile on his face. 

“Speech has never been easy to me,” he said. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


bedstefar's funeral. 

T HE day before Bedstefar’s funeral Jens and 
Alan came down from the mountain-lake 
laden with nearly two hundred pounds of 
trout, and the cotters’ children finished their 
task of bringing in all the multebaer they could find; 
for no Norwegian entertainment, taking place at this 
season of the year, would have been considered complete 
without this much-loved fruit; and certainly it would 
seem that multebaer had a softening effect on the strange 
and somewhat hard Norwegian temperament. As Tante 
said, from her own personal observations of the previous 
days, multebaer spelt magic ! 

“Ibsen has not done justice to his country,” she told 
Gerda. “He ought at least once to have described them 
as being under the influence of these berries. Then a 
softer side of their nature would have been made ap- 
parent to all. Why, the Sorenskriver himself becomes 
a woolly lamb as he bends over his plate of cloudberries 
and cream. He ought to have his photograph taken. 
No one would recognise him, and that is what photo- 
graphs are for !” 

They all helped to decorate the Gaard inside and out, 
with branches of firs and birches. Bedstefar’s black 
house was decorated too, and the whole courtyard was 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


287 


covered with sprigs of juniper and fir. A beautiful 
arch of fir and birch was raised over the white gate 
through which he would pass for the last time on his 
way down to the old church in the valley. 

Katharine, together with Ragnhild and Ingeborg, 
spent many hours making strips of wreathing from 
twigs of the various berry-shrubs up in the woods. Karl 
used these for lettering; so that stretched from side to 
side of the arch, ran the words: “Farvel, kjaere 
Bedstefar.” 

When he had finished, everyone came out to see his 
work, and Mor Inga, turning to Tante, said proudly: 

“My Karl is clever, isn’t he ?” 

And she whispered : 

“Three years ago he did that for our eldest son, and 
bitterly we were weeping then. I go about thinking of 
that now.” 

Then Tante and Mor Inga took a little stroll away 
from the others, outside the gate and down the road 
towards the great cow-house. Part of this road, too, 
had been planted with tall fir-branches, so that Bedstefar 
would pass under the archway and through an avenue of 
green until he reached the outer white gate, which was 
the entrance to the Gaard-enclosure. And here Mor 
Inga and Tante lingered, whilst the proud Norwegian 
heart gave vent to its sadness, and the kindly Danish 
heart beat in understanding sympathy, and the dead 
son’s dog Jeppe came and whined softly in token that 
he too was mourning in remembrance of the past. 

So the night, the bright Norwegian night, beginning 
to realise that its brightness was being threatened, see- 
ing that the birches were counting their yellow leaves, 


288 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


even as we, no longer young and not yet old, count our 
grey hairs, this summer-night passed, almost impercep- 
tibly into morning, and the activities of the next day 
began early. 

Bedstemor, reinstated in her former role of leading 
lady of the Gaard, was in a state of feverish excitement. 
She was dressed in black, and wore over her bodice a 
fine black silk shawl, one hundred years old. Her head 
was encased in a sort of black silk night-cap, edged with 
old white lace: so that her pretty face was framed in 
white. A slight flush on her cheeks made her look 
strangely youthful. She sat in the porch waiting to 
receive the guests; and by special request of Mor Inga 
and Solli himself, Tante, Gerda, and Katharine sat there 
too. They felt awkward at first, knowing themselves to 
be there in the capacity of sightseers, rather than that 
of mourners; but Bedstemor’s cheerful spirits put them 
at their ease. She was much interested in Katharine’s 
dress-material, feeling the texture and comparing it 
with her own. 

“It is very good,” she said thoughtfully, “but not so 
good as mine !” 

All the same, that dress-material worried her; she 
fingered it several times, nodded mysteriously and 
seemed lost in thought ; whether about Bedstef ar or the 
dress-material, no one could of course decide. But, 
later, she spoke of some wreaths which had been sent, 
and she said quaintly : 

“Min mand did not want any flowers. But it does 
not matter much what he wanted. He won’t know, 
stakkar, will he?” 

At last the guests began to arrive, some in carrioles, 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


289 


some in stol-kjaeres, and some few in ordinary car- 
riages. They all brought funeral-cakes in large painted 
baskets. As each conveyance drove up into the court- 
yard, one of the daughters, either Ranghild, or Ingeborg, 
or Helga, went out to meet it, greeted the guests, and 
bore away the cake into the kitchen. It seemed to be 
the etiquette that the cake should be received in person 
by one of the family. The horses, most of them the 
knowing little Norwegian yellow Nordfjord pony, or else 
the somewhat bigger Gulbrandsdal black horse, were 
unharnessed and led away by the cotters. The guests 
advanced awkwardly to the porch, greeted Bedstemor 
and turned to the strangers shyly, but were at once 
reassured by Tante’s genial bearing and Katharine^ 
friendly smile. Gerda, too, was at her best, and was 
feeling so cheerful that Tante feared she was going to 
break into song. Quaint, strange-looking people crossed 
that threshold, shook hands with everyone in the porch, 
and passed into the house to find Bedstemor, who had 
disappeared into the hall, and was seated in a corner 
drinking port wine with an old friend. Wine and 
coffee were served at once, as a sign of welcome to the 
Gaard. The flag which had been lowered to half-mast 
since BedstefaFs death, was now hoisted full-mast to 
welcome the guests to the proud Solli homestead. The 
women, some of them beautiful in feature, were ungrace- 
ful in form and bearing ; they dressed no longer in the 
picturesque Gudbrandsdal costume, but were all clothed 
in ill-fitting black dresses, with no remnant of the 
picturesque anywhere : queenly-looking women, some of 
them, born, one would think, to be mothers of Vikings; 
and most of them with proud pedigrees which would 


290 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


excite envy in many a Royal breast: shy and awkward 
most of them, even with each other. The men had 
perhaps a little more savoir faire, but it was easy to 
see that they all led lonely lives, and were part and 
parcel of that lonely land on which Nature has set a 
seal of mystic melancholy. Some of the men were fine 
fellows, but none as handsome as Solli, Karl, and J ens ; 
but the Solli tribe had long been celebrated for their 
good looks, and old Bedstefar in his time had been voted 
the best-looking man in the whole of the Gudbrandsdal. 
The guests were nearly all Bonder (land-owners) repre- 
senting the best blood in the valley ; most of them having 
the largest Gaards, and the best-decorated pews in the 
churches of the different districts. Then there was the 
Lensmand (bailiff), a weird old man, rather feeble of 
gait, but acute in wit. He seemed much taken with 
Katharine, and came several times to shake hands with 
her, pretending to be a newcomer each time. But he 
had to keep more in the background when his superior 
officer, the Foged (under-magistrate), appeared on the 
scene. This gentleman was, of course, a local per- 
sonage, and he brought a very large wreath and wore 
an important black satin waistcoat. There was also the 
doctor, Distriktslaege* Larsen, famous for his rough 
ways and disagreeable temper, but also for his skill in 
mending broken arms and legs during the "ski” season. 
He seemed rather scornful of the whole scene, but not 
of the port wine. And there was a Tandlaeget (dentist ) 1 
from Christiania, a nephew of the Sollis’, who wore a 
very long black frock-coat and the most fashionable 
pointed boots. He was their representative man of the 
* Laege, doctor (leech), 
f Tandlaege, tooth-leech. 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


291 


world and fashion, and they prized him greatly. There 
were yet two other precious persons — a member of the 
Storthing,* Bedstemor’s nephew, and his wife, rather a 
fine lady, who at first kept herself in “splendid isola- 
tion,” but soon forgot that she was a Storthingsmands* 
wife with a Parisian dress, and threw her lot in with 
her nn-Parisian clothed relations. She was a little sus- 
picions of the Englishwoman, perceiving indeed a for- 
midable rival in well-cnt garments ; but directly Katha- 
rine and she began to speak to each other in an ingenious 
mixture of German and broken English, suspicions gave 
way to approbation, and she said to her husband : 

“Surely the English cannot be such brutes if this is a 
specimen of them ?” 

“Pyt !” he said scornfully. “They are barbarians and 
brutes — all of them.” 

Nevertheless he found his way over to the English- 
woman, and was not at all eager to leave her company 
to join the cheerful contingents of guests who were now 
strolling over to the black house to take leave of poor 
BedstefaPs face. When at last he was obliged to go, he 
even asked her to come too ; but as Tante bravely said, 
they had all seen poor dead Bedstefar often enough to 
satisfy the most punctilious Gaard etiquette. Soon the 
Praest arrived, a short man, with a kindly, uninspired 
countenance. He was accompanied by his wife and two 
daughters and the Klokker (clerk), who carried in a 
bag the Calvin ruff and gown still used by the Nor- 
wegian and Danish clergymen. For it was due to the 
position and dignity of the Sollis, that most of the 
funeral service should be conducted in the Gaard itself. 

* Storthing, National Assembly. 


292 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


If Bedstefar had been of no special standing, he would 
have been taken without any preliminaries to the church- 
yard, and in the absence of the clergyman, the clerk 
would have said the prayers and sung the hymns, and 
when the clergyman had returned from his parochial 
duties in some other quarter, he would have thrown the 
earth and said the final words of committal over perhaps 
five or six patiently-waiting coffins. But Bedstefar 
being who and what he was, had all possible honour 
shown him in his death, as in his marriage and at his 
birth. 

The Praest took port wine, chatted with his friends, 
and went with Bedstemor to say farewell to Bedstefar. 
And then, at last, at last the coffin was closed and borne 
through the great hall into the inner sitting-room, pre- 
ceded by the Praest, now in his vestments, and Bedste- 
mor, who walked bravely by his side. The nearest rela- 
tions were grouped round the coffin. The women-guests 
sat in the outer room ; the men stood together in the hall. 
The cotters, their wives, and the servants of the house 
stood, some on the stairs, and some in the porch. Tante, 
Katharine, and Gerda, not remembering the custom that 
the men and women should be separate, sat in the hall, 
and were able to see through into the inner room, where 
Bedstemor, still gallantly comporting herself, joined in 
the dismal singing led by the clerk, and Mor Inga think- 
ing of the last time that the clerk led the singing in 
that very room, wept silently, and drew little Helga 
closer to her side. When the singing and prayers were 
over, the Praest gave a long funeral discourse, dwelling 
on poor BedstefaPs virtues, which he was known not to 
have possessed in overflowing measure : nevertheless tears 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


293 


flowed, and grim old men said “Ja, ja,” and the Praest 
was considered to have preached appropriately, and 
Bedstemor seemed gratified. Then the cotters raised 
the coffin, bore it out and placed it on the low cart 
which had been painted black for the occasion; and 
Svarten, the clever black horse who never slipped, never 
failed in duty or intelligence, and knew every inch of 
that winding and awkward way down to the valley, 
Svarten drew his burden through the decorated gate. 

“Farvel, Bedstefar,” said everyone. 

Bedstemor stepped briskly into the carriage, together 
with the Praest, Solli, and Mor Inga. The daughters 
remained at home to preside over the final preparations 
for the feasting. The sons followed in a carriole, and 
all the other men-guests helped to harness their horses 
and started off leisurely in the procession, a long, strag- 
gling, dust-raising line of about fifty conveyances. The 
women stayed behind, drank coffee and strolled about the 
house, examining everything, as Ragnhild predicted; 
peering into the huge old painted and decorated chests 
full of fine linen, looking at the old painted sledge and 
cradle, dating back from 1450, precious Solli possessions, 
and casting an eye on the old silver tankards, and on 
the famous old carved door and sides of a pulpit, for- 
merly belonging to an old church which had been 
swept away by the falling of an avalanche some 150 
years previously. Then there were the old painted cup- 
boards and the queer-shaped old Norwegian chairs and 
stools, and the old-fashioned, richly-carved mangles, and 
the old-world slit of a recess in the wall for the Lange- 
leik, and a fine old Hardanger violin which Bedstefar 
was reported to have played with uncommon skill; 


294 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


having been specially clever at giving descriptive im- 
provisations of Nature in her many moods, and of things 
mystic, such as the song of the Huldre, and things 
human, such as the ringing of marriage-bells. Alas, 
alas, that old-world ways were dying out and old-world 
music too ! Still there was much of the old atmosphere 
in the Solli Gaard, and no other homestead in the whole 
valley could boast of so many old-time treasures curi- 
ously mixed up with modern importations. So that the 
lady funeral-guests had much with which to amuse 
themselves, and they roamed into the different bedrooms, 
examined Tante’s possessions, and Katharine’s belong- 
ings, and did not seem at all abashed when Tante and 
Katharine discovered them in the very act. Of course 
not, for it was a day of entertainment, and as a sweet 
little old lady, a pocket-edition of Bedstemor, said, with 
a twinkle in her eye : 

“Thou knowest we are here to enjoy ourselves. We 
have come a long way. And there have not been many 
funerals or weddings in the valley lately.” 

Knutty of course understood perfectly, and exerted 
herself heroically to amuse everyone, drinking coffee 
with everyone in a reckless fashion, and even flirting 
with the one man who was left behind, an aged Gaard- 
mand (landowner) of about ninety years. So the time 
passed away cheerily for all ; and when Bedstemor, Solli, 
and the Praest arrived home from the churchyard, fol- 
lowed in due time by the others, the feasting began. 
It seemed to be the etiquette that the women should 
eat separately from the men. They all gathered 
together in the parlour, where rich soup was served to 
them sitting; and after this opening ceremony, they 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


295 


were expected to stroll into the great dining-room, where 
a huge table, beautifully decorated with leaves, was 
spread with every kind of food acceptable to the Nor- 
wegian palate : trout, cooked in various ways, beef, mut- 
ton, veal, sauces, gravies, potatoes, even vegetables (a 
great luxury in those parts), compots , and, of course, 
the usual accompaniment of smoked mysteries. The 
plates, knives, and forks were arranged in solid blocks, 
and the guests were supposed to wait on themselves and 
take what they wished. They walked round the table 
on a voyage of inspection and reflection, carrying a 
plate and a fork; and having into this one plate put 
everything that took their fancy, they retired to their 
seats, and ate steadily in a business-like fashion. There 
was scarcely any talking. When the women were served, 
the men came and helped themselves in the same way, 
retiring with their booty either into the hall or the 
adjoining room. All of them made many journeys to 
the generous table, returning each time with a heaped-up 
plate in their hands and in their minds a distinct, though 
silent, satisfaction that the Sollis were doing the thing 
in a suitable style. Everyone made a splendid square 
meal; but Bedstemor took the prize for appetite. She 
was very happy and excited. Hers was the only voice 
heard. As Knutty said, it was refreshing to know that 
there was at least one cheerful person amongst those 
solemn one hundred and twenty guests ! Knutty herself 
rose to the occasion with characteristic readiness. She 
ate nobly without intermission, as though she had been 
attending Norwegian peasant-funerals all her life; and 
she gave a mischievous wink to Gerda and Katharine 
every time Bedstemor rose from her seat and strode 


296 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


masterfully to the table in search of further fodder. 
No one otfered any courtesy to anyone else. It seemed 
to be the custom that each person should look after 
herself ; and there was a look of puzzled amusement on 
some of the faces when Katharine attempted to wait 
on one or two of the guests. Nevertheless, the attention 
once understood, was vaguely appreciated ; and the 
pretty little old lady whom Katharine had found in her 
bedroom, soon allowed herself to be petted and spoiled 
by the visitors. Indeed, she abandoned all her relatives, 
and always sat with Knutty and Company. 

This meal came to an end about four o’clock, when 
there was another relay of coffee. Some of the guests 
strolled about and picked red-currants off the bushes 
in Bedstemor’s garden. Knutty found her way to the 
cow-house and learnt from her favourite Mette that all 
the servants and cotters were having a splendid meal 
too. 

“Ja, ja,” Mette said, “I have eaten enough to last for 
two years. And the young ox tasted lovely! Did’st 
thou eat of him ? Ak, there is old Kari crying her heart 
out because the young ox had to be killed. Thou 
knowest she was fond of him. Ak, nobody has cried for 
Bedstefar as much as old Kari has cried for the young 
ox. And she wouldn’t eat an inch of him — only think 
of that, Froken, isn’t it remarkable ?” 

“It certainly is,” said Knutty, with a twinkle in her 
eye. “For most of us generally do eat up the people 
we love best — beginning with the tenderest part of 
them.” 

For one moment Mette looked aghast, and then light 
broke in upon her. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


297 


*Nei da,” she said brightly, “but as long as we don’t 
really eat them, it doesn’t matter, does it?” 

“It is supposed not to matter,” answered Knutty, 
moving off to comfort old Kari, who was not only 
mourning for the young black ox, but also continuing 
to feel personally aggrieved over her disappointment 
about Clifford’s ghost. 

“Ak, ak, the young black ox!” cried Kari, when she 
saw her Danish friend. “Eat him ? Not I, dear Froken, 
I was fond of him. Ak, ak !” 

“Be comforted, Kari,” said Knutty soothingly. “You 
loved him and were good to him and didn’t eat him up. 
What more do you want ?” 

“Will you tell me whether he tasted good?” asked 
Kari softly. “I should like to know that he was a suc- 
cess.” 

“He was delicious,” said Knutty, “and I heard the 
Praest and the doctor speaking in praise of him. Of 
course, they must know.” 

Kari nodded as if reassured, and disappeared into the 
cow-house, Tante’s concert-room, wiping her moist eyes 
with her horny hands. She came back again, and stood 
for a moment in the doorway. 

“I cannot believe that it was not the Englishman’s 
ghost,” she said, shaking her head mysteriously. “I felt 
it was a ghost. I trembled all over, and my knees gave 
way.” 

“But you surely believe now that my Englishman is 
alive, don’t you, Kari?” asked Tante, who was much 
amused. 

“I cannot be sure,” replied Kari, and she disappeared 
again ; but Tante, knowing that she always carried on a 


298 KATHARINE FRENSHAM 

conversation in this weird manner, waited for her sudden 
return. 

“That is Ragnhild’s sweetheart,” she said, in a whis- 
per, pointing to a tall fair young man who had come 
down with another guest to take a look at the horses. 
“Nei, nei, don’t you tell her I told you. He is a rich 
Gaardmand from the other side of the valley.” 

“But I have seen them together and they don’t speak 
a word to each other,” Knutty said. 

“Why should they ?” asked old Kari. “There is noth- 
ing to say.” 

And she disappeared finally. 

“My goodness,” thought Knutty, “if all nations only 
spoke when there was anything worth saying, what a 
gay world it would he !” 

Then Tante took a look at the guests’ horses, some 
of them in the stable, and others tethered outside, and 
all eating steadily of the Sollis’ com. For the hos- 
pitality of the Guard extended to the animals too; and 
it would have been a breach of etiquette if any of the 
guests had brought with them sacks of food for the 
horses ; just as it would have been a breach of etiquette 
not to have contributed to the collection of funeral-cakes 
which were now being arranged on the table in the 
dining-room, together with jellies, fancy creams, and 
many kinds of home-made wines. Alan was sent by 
Mor Inga to summon Tante to a private view of this 
remarkable show. Some of the cakes had crape attached 
to them and bore Bedstefar’s initials in icing. They 
were of all imaginable shapes, and looked rich and 
tempting. Tante’s mouth watered. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 299 

"Ak,” she cried, "if I could only eat them all at one 
mouthful !” 

Every right-minded guest had the same desire when 
the room was thrown open to the public. And all set 
to work stolidly to fulfill a portion of their original 
impulse. Bedstemor again distinguished herself; but 
Alan ran her very close. Katharine and Gerda did not 
do badly. In fact, no one did badly at this most char- 
acteristic part of the day’s feasting. Then everyone 
went up and thanked Solli and Mor Inga, saying : “Tak 
for Kagen” (thanks for the cakes). Indeed, one had 
to go up and say "Tak” for everything: after wine 
and coffee, dinner, dessert, and supper, which began 
about nine o’clock. No sooner was one meal finished, 
than preparations were immediately made for the next, 
etiquette demanding that variety should be the order of 
the day. The supper-table was decorated with fresh 
leaves arranged after a fresh scheme, the centre being 
occupied by all the funeral gifts of butter, some of them 
in picturesque shapes of Saeters and Staburs. 

Cold meats, dried meats of every kind, cold fish, dried 
fish, smoked fish, and cheeses innumerable were the 
menu of this evening meal. The guests did astonishing 
justice to it in their usual business-like fashion ; perhaps 
here and there Knutty remarked "an appetite that 
failed,” but, on the whole, there was no falling off from 
the excellent average. Bedstemor was tired, and was 
persuaded to go to bed. But she said up to the very 
end that she was bra’, bra,’ and had had a happy day. 
Her old face looked a little sad, and Knutty thought 
that perhaps she was fretting for Bedstefar, after all. 
Perhaps she was. 


300 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


So the first day’s feasting in honour of Bedstefar came 
to an end. The second day was a repetition of the first, 
except that the guests began to be more cheerful. Those 
who lived in the actual neighbourhood, had gone away 
over night and returned in the morning; but most of 
them had been quartered in the Gaard itself. Knutty 
talked to everyone, and continued her flirtation with 
the ancient Gaardmand of ninety years, who, so she 
learnt, had been noted as an adept at the Halling-dance. 
She had made him tell her of the good old times and 
ancient customs, and once she succeeded in drawing him 
on to speak of the Huldre. She had to use great tact 
in her questionings; but, as she always said to herself, 
she had been born with some tact, and had acquired a 
good deal more in dealing with two generations of ice- 
bergs. So she sat amongst these reserved Norwegians, 
and, little by little, with wonderful patience and per- 
severance, dug a hole in their frozen heart-springs. They 
liked her. They said to Mor Inga : 

“The fat old Danish lady is bra’, bra’.” 

And Mor Inga whispered to her : 

“Thou art a good one. They all like thee. There was 
a calf born last night. We have settled to call it after 
thy name — Knuttyros.” 

"I am sure I do not deserve such an honour,” Tante 
said, trying to be humble. 

“Yes, thou dost,” Mor Inga answered with grave 
dignity, as she went off to her duties as hostess. 

But Tante did not understand until Clifford explained 
to her that a great mark of Norwegian approval had been 
bestowed on her. 

“Then I suppose it is like your new order of merit in 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


301 


England,” she said, “ ‘honour without insult.’ Ah, 
Clifford, I hope some day, in the years to come, that 
your name will be found amongst the favoured few.” 

“Not very likely, Knutty,” he said. “I belong only 
to the rank and file of patient workers and gropers, 
whose failures and mistakes prepare the way for the 
triumph of brighter spirits.” 

“Sniksnak !” said Knutty contemptuously. “Don’t 
pretend to me that you are content with that. And don’t 
talk to me about patience. I hate the word. It is almost 
as bad as balance and self-control. Balanced people, 
self-controlled people, patient people indeed ! Get along 
with them! The only suitable place for them is in a 
herbarium amongst the other dried plants.” 

“But, Tante,” said Gerda, who always took Knutty 
seriously, “there would and could be no science without 
patience.” 

“And a good thing too!” replied Knutty recklessly, 
winking at Katharine. 

“Tante’s head is turned by the unexpected honour of 
being chosen as god-mother to a Norwegian cow,” Clif- 
ford said. “We must bear with her.” 

Knutty laughed. She was always glad when her 
Englishman teased her. She watched him as he went 
back into the hall and sat down near the doctor and 
clergyman. 

“My Clifford begins to look younger again,” she 
thought. 

She watched him when Alan came and stood by him 
for a moment, and then went off with Jens. 

“Yes,” she thought, “it is all right with my icebergs 
now.” 


302 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


She glanced across to Katharine, who was doing her 
best to make friends with the women in the parlour. 

“Dear one,” she thought, “will you remember, I 
wonder, that I told you he will never be able to speak 
unless you help him ?” 

She watched her when Alan came in his shy way and 
sat down near her. 

“Dear one,” she thought, “the other iceberg is in love 
with you too, and I am not jealous. What a wonderful 
old woman I am! Or is it you who are wonderful, 
bringing love and happiness to us all ? Ah, that’s it !” 

So the second day’s feasting in honour of Bedstefar 
came to an end; and on the third day, the men played 
quoits in the courtyard, and smoked and drank more 
lustily. The Sorenskriver, who had had various quiet 
disputes on the previous days with the doctor, the Foged, 
and the Storthingsmand, now broke forth into violent 
discussions with the same opponents, and was pro- 
nounced by Knutty to be at the zenith of happiness 
because he was at the zenith of disagreeableness! All 
the men were enjoying themselves in one way or another ; 
but the women sat in the big parlour looking a little 
tired and bored. It was Katharine who suggested that 
Gerda should sing to them. 

“Sing to them their own songs,” she said. “You will 
make them so happy. If I could do anything to amuse 
them, I would. But if one does not know the language, 
what can one do ?” 

“You have your own language, kjaere,” Gerda an- 
swered, “the language of kindness, and they have all 
understood it. If Tante was not so conceited, she would 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 303 

know that you have really been sharing with her the 
approval of the company.” 

“Nonsense,” laughed Katharine. “Why, they think I 
am a barbarian woman from a country where there are 
no mountains and no Saeters ! Come now, sing to them 
and to me. I love to hear your voice.” 

“So does my Ejnar,” said Gerda. “Ak, I wish he were 
here! He would pretend not to care; but he would 
listen on the sly. Well, well, it is good to be without 
him. One has one’s freedom.” 

So she sat down and sang. She began with a little 
Swedish song : 

“Om dagen vid mitt arbete” (at daytime when I’m 
working) . 

AT DAY-TIME WHEN I’M WORKING. 


Lento. 



42s s 

■ l»> . — 

T*~ T 

----- | ■— N-. 

- 

At the day-time when I’m working, Thou reignest in my thought; At 

fcf: 

^ L K ^ 




f * 

r J > _N 

® 5 ; i ; 

_t? & 

i t 

m 

1 1 ^ -1 




-d- -d- 

-d- -d- -4- 

~dr 

a - w- 


()S — -N ; 

, ■— re-r-f a, ~ T ~^~rJ S g fry— 1 N-, 

^ * — 13 

^ night when I am sleep-ing, Thou relgn-est in my dreams; At 

E 

— i**" 'V ^ -1 j—r— 1 1~ I — f~ -1 

K 1 

IrV 3 ^ :f: |r; ® 5 S 


. - 4 --r-n j- 

* — --d- 




304 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 




my be - lov - ed sweet - heart, So far, so far a - way. 



“That is one of my Ejnar’s favourites,” she said, turn- 
ing to Katharine. 

The company began to be mildly interested. It was 
not the Norwegian habit of mind to be interested at 
once. Still, one or two faces betrayed a faint sign of 
pleasure; and one of the men peeped in from the hall. 
Then she sang another Swedish song, “Oh, hear, thou 
young Dora.” It was so like Gerda to feel in a Swedish 
mood when she ought to have been feeling Norwegian. 

The company seemed pleased. They nodded at each 
other. 

Another man peeped in from the hall. Bedstemor 
strode masterfully into the room, and sat down near the 
little pocket-edition of herself. 

“That is another of my Ejnar’s favourites,” Gerda 
whispered, turning to Katharine again. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


305 


She paused for a moment thinking. No one spoke. 
Then she chose a Norwegian song. AagoFs mountain 
song. This was it 


AAGOT’S MOUNTAIN SONG. 



There was a stir of pleasure in the company. Mor 
Inga and Solli slipped in. Then she sang one of 
Kjerulf s songs, “Over de hoje Fjelde.” * 


* Bjornson’s words from Arne, translated by Walter Low. 
By kind permission of Mr, Win, Heinemann. 


306 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


Fain would I know what the world may be 
Over the mountains high. 

Mine eyes can nought but the white snow see, , 

And up the steep sides the dark fir tree, 

That climbs as if yearning to know. 

Ah! what if one ventured to go! 

”Up, heart, up! and away, away, 

Over the mountains high. 

For my courage is young and my soul will be gay, 

If no longer bound straitly and fettered I stay, 

But seeking yon summit to gain, 

No more beat my wings here in vain. 

The Sorenskriver came in and sat down by Katharine. 

“Yes,” he said, more to himself than to her, “I remem- 
ber having those thoughts when I was a young boy. 
What should I find over the mountains ? Ak, and what 
does one find in exchange for all one’s yearning?” 

Gerda had sung this beautifully. The natural mel- 
ancholy of her voice suited to perfection the weird sad- 
ness of Norwegian music. The company was gratified. 
They knew and loved that song well, and some of them 
joined in timidly at the end of the last verse. The old 
Gaardmand crept into the room and sat near Knutty. 

“I could sing as finely as I could dance the Hailing,” 
he said to Knutty, with a grim smile. 

“Thou should’st have heard me sing,” said Bedstemor 
to Knutty. “I had a beautiful voice.” 

“And so had I,” said the pocket-edition of Bedstemor, 
clutching at Knutty’s dress. 

“Ja vel,” answered Knutty sympathetically, “I can 
well believe it.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


307 


And she added to herself: 

“We all had a voice, or think we had. It amounts to 
the same when the past is past. A most convenient 
thing, that past — that kind of past which only crops up 
when you want it.” 

Then Gerda sang: 


COME HAUL THE WATER, HAUL THE WOOD. 



hills, And drive those who want to drive, But 



eyes so blue— The pret - ty girls whom I love so, But when I get my 



own true love, Then life can give me noth - ing bet - ter I 


This time the audience which, unbeknown to Gerda, 
had grown to large proportions, joined in lustily, led by 
Bedstemor’s cracked old voice. She beat time, too, still 
playing the role of leading lady. Katharine, sitting by 
Gerda’s side, but a little in front of the piano, saw that 
the hall was full of eager listeners, and that at the back 


308 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


of the guests, were the servants of the Gaard, including 
Thea and the dramatic Mette, and some of the cotters, 
and old Kari. The music which they knew and loved, 
had gathered them all together from courtyard, kitchen, 
and cow-house. There was no listlessness on any face 
now : an unwilling animation, born of real pleasure, lit 
up the countenances of both men and women — an ani- 
mation all the more interesting, so Katharine thought, 
because of its reluctance and shyness. It reminded her 
of Alan’s shyness, of Clifford’s too ; she remembered that 
Clifford had said to her several times : 

“I believe I am a Norwegian in spirit if not in body. 
I have always loved the North and yearned after it.” 

She glanced at him and caught him looking fixedly 
at her. He was thinking: 

“To-morrow, when she and I go off to Peer Gynt’s 
home together, shall I be able to speak to her as I spoke 
to her in my dream up at the Saeter ?” 

He turned away when he met her glance, and retired 
at once into himself. 

Then Gerda sang other Norwegian songs, everyone 
joining in with increasing enjoyment and decreasing 
shyness : songs about cows, pastures, Saeters, sweethearts 
and Huldres, a curious mixture of quaint, even humor- 
ous words, and melancholy music. 

Finally the Sorenskriver, scarcely waiting until the 
voices had died away, stood up, a commanding figure, a 
typical rugged Norwegian; and started the national 
song: 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


309 


YES, WE LOVE OUR MOUNTAIN HOME. 


Tempo at marcia. 















:-h 


— 1 



0 

1 — 

* 

m 









Yes, we love our mountain country, Ris - ing from the sea, 



Wrinkled, weath-er beat - en, With its thousand homes. 


y r a 



■ IV V 




f j \ 

. m - 


Love it, prize it, and are think-ing Of our line-age brave, And of the 



sa - ga night that’s spreading, Grand dreams upon our land, Of the 



sa * ga night that’s spreading Grand dreams up - on our land. 


Long afterwards Katharine remembered that scene 
and that singing. 

No voice was silent, no heart was without its thrill, 
no face without its sign of pride of race and country. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


PEER GYNT'S STUE. 

T HE next morning all the guests went away. 

They were packed in their carrioles, gigs, 
and carriages, and their cake-baskets were 
returned to them, etiquette demanding that 
each guest should take away a portion of another guest’s 
funeral-cake offering. Ragnhild’s sweetheart was the 
last to go. Knutty watched with lynx eyes to see if 
there was going to be any outward and visible sign of 
the interest which they felt for each other; but she de- 
tected none. 

“Well, they must be very much in love with each 
other,” she said to Gerda, “for there is not a single flaw 
in their cloak of sulkiness. Ak, ak, kjaere, I am glad 
the funeral is over. I have not borne up as bravely as 
Bedstemor; but then, of course, I have not lost a hus- 
band. That makes a difference. Now don’t look 
shocked. I know quite well I ought not to have said 
that. All the same, Bedstemor’s strength and spirits 
and appetite have been something remarkable. I believe 
she would like a perpetual funeral going on at the 
Gaard. And how lustily she sang last evening! That 
reminds me, you sang beautifully yesterday, and were 
most kind and gracious to the whole company. I think 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


311 


Mor Inga ought to have made you the godmother of the 
calf. I was proud of my Gerda. I am proud of my 
Gerda, although I do tease her.” 

“Never mind,” said Gerda, giving her a hug, “was 
sich liebts, sich neckt. And I am not jealous about the 
calf. I am a little jealous about the Englishwoman 
sometimes. Tante loves her.” 

“Yes,” said Tante simply, “I love her, but quite differ- 
ently from the way in which I love my botanical speci- 
mens. My botanists have their own private herbarium 
in my heart.” 

Gerda smiled. 

“I like her too, Tante,” she said. “You know I was 
not very jealous of her when my Ejnar began to pay 
her attentions.” 

“Because you knew they would not last,” laughed 
Knutty. “You need never be anxious about him. He is 
not a sensible human being. He won’t do anything worse 
than elope with a plant. Any way, he cannot elope with 
Miss Frensham just now, as he is safe in the Dovre 
mountains making love to the ‘ranunculus glacialis!”’ 

“She told me she was going to Peer Gynt’s stue with 
the Kemiker,” Gerda said after a pause. “I wish I 
could have gone, too. But my ankle is too bad.” 

“Ah, what a good thing!” remarked Knutty. “That 
gives them a chance. How I wish he would elope with 
her. But he won’t, the silly fellow. I know him. If 
you see him, tell him I said he was to elope with her 
instantly. I am going off to the cow-house to have a 
talk with my dramatic Mette and to learn the cow-house 
gossip about the funeral-feast. So farewell for the 
present.” 


312 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“I cannot think why Mette is such a favourite with 
you, Tante,” Gerda said. “You know she isn’t a re- 
spectable girl at all.” 

“Kjaere, don’t wave the banner; for pity’s sake, don’t 
wave the banner,” Tante said. “Who is respectable, I 
should like to know ? I am sure I am not, and you are 
not. That is to say, we may be respectable in one direc- 
tion, but that does not make up the sum total. There, 
go and think that over, and be sure and keep your ankle 
bad; and if you see Alan, tell him to follow me to the 
cow-house ; for I want him to do something for me.” 

And so it came to pass that Clifford and Katharine 
were able to steal off alone to Peer Gynt’s stue. They 
had tried several times during the funeral feasting to 
escape from the company; but Mor Inga liked to have 
all the guests around her, and it would have seemed 
uncourteous if any of them had deliberately withdrawn 
themselves. But now they were free to go where they 
wished without breaking through the strict Norwegian 
peasant-etiquette. They had long since planned this 
Peer Gynt expedition. It was Bedstemor who originally 
suggested it to Clifford. She was always saying that he 
must go to Peer Gynt’s stue ; and her persistence led 
him to believe that there really was some old house in 
the district which local tradition claimed to be Peer 
Gynt’s childhood’s home ; where, as in Ibsen’s wonderful 
poem, he, a wild, idle, selfish fellow from early years 
upwards, lived with his mother Ase. Clifford had not 
been able to find out to his entire satisfaction whether 
or not this particular stue had been known as Peer 
Gynt’s house before the publication of Ibsen’s poem. 
Bedstemor had always known it as such, and gave most 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


313 


minute instructions for finding it. The old Gaardmand 
with whom Knutty had flirted, said he had always 
known it as Peer Gynt’s actual home ; and even old Kari, 
when questioned, said : “ J a, sikkert, Peer Gynt lived up 
over there.” Bedstemor had a few vague stories to tell 
about Peer Gynt, and she ended up with : “Ja, ja, he was 
a wild fellow, who did wild things, and saw and heard 
wonderful things.” 

So apparently Peer Gynt was a real person who had 
had his home somewhere in this part of the great Gud- 
brandsdal; and Ibsen had probably caught up some of 
the stories about the real man, and woven them into the 
network of his hero’s character. But, as Knutty said, 
the only thing which really mattered, was the indis- 
putable fact that Ibsen had placed the scene of three 
acts of his poem in the Gudbrandsdal and the moun- 
tains round about, and that they — herself, Clifford, 
Katharine, every one of them — were there in the very 
atmosphere, mental and physical, of the great poem 
itself. 

“And the stue stands for an idea if not for a fact,” 
she said, “like Hamlet’s grave in my beloved Elsinore. 
Go and enjoy, and forget, for once, to be accurate.” 

He thought of Knutty’s words as he and Katharine 
left the Gaard and began to climb down the steep hill- 
side on their way to the valley; for Peer Gynt’s home 
was perched on another mountain-ridge, and they had 
first to descend from their own heights, gain the valley, 
walk along by the glacier-river, and pass by the old 
brown church before they came to the steep path which 
would lead them up to their goal. He said to himself. 


314 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Yes, Peer GynFs stue stands for an idea in more 
senses than one. Day after day, when I have not been 
able to open my heart to her, I have thought that per- 
haps I should be able to break through my silence on 
our pilgrimage to Peer Gynt’s stue.” 

The morning was fair and fresh; summer was pass- 
ing ; there was a touch of crispness in the air which sug- 
gested frost and “iron nights,” dreaded by the peasants 
before the harvest should have been gathered in. Kath- 
arine and Clifford kept to the course of the stream, 
which was a quick, though a steep, way down to the saw- 
mill, beautifully situated near a foss of the glacier-river, 
the roar and rush of which they heard up at the Solli 
Gaard. There was a bridge across this river, and they 
stood there watching the tumbling mass of water, and 
recalling the morning when they had passed over to the 
other side on their way to the Saeters. The little Land- 
handleri across the bridge was being besieged by no less 
than four customers. Their carrioles were fastened to 
a long rail outside the queer little shop which contained 
everything mortal man could want, from rough butter- 
boxes and long china-pipes to dried cod and over-alls. 

“I never see these places without thinking of the iso- 
lated shops dumped down in lonely districts out in the 
west of America,” Katharine said. “Some of them were 
kept by Norwegians, too.” 

“They have had their training in isolation here, you 
see,” Clifford said, “and so go out knowing how to cater 
for isolated people. And they make a small fortune 
quickly and return. At least, some of them return, those 
in whom the love of country outweighs everything else 
in life.” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


315 


"I should be one of those,” Katharine said. “I should 
always yearn to return.” 

“I remember your saying you would like to bring all 
the broken-hearted exiles home,” he said. 

“Yes,” she said, “I would.” 

“You have a heart of pity,” he said, turning to her. 

“I am sorry for those who have lost their country,” she 
said. “I have seen them suffer. If I were a millionaire, 
I would find out some of the worst cases, and give them 
back their country and the means to enjoy it, or the 
opportunity of dying in it.” 

So they talked or were silent as the mood seized them. 
They were happy, and frankly glad to be together alone. 
They left the bridge, passed along the main road, 
through fragrant fir-woods, and came to a most pic- 
turesque spot where two rivers, one of them the glacier- 
river, met and rushed on together as one. They crossed 
this long bridge and found themselves on the other side 
of the main valley. Here they looked back and could 
discern the big Solli Gaard, perched proudly on the 
opposite mountain-ridge. Then their way lay along the 
easy road by the winding river. It retreated from them, 
returned, retreated. The sun jewelled the clear part 
of it with diamonds, and the strange milky glacier part 
of it with opals. Finally it left them, and they could 
scarcely reconcile themselves to its departure, but strolled 
back once more to enjoy its gracious company. But at 
last they said farewell to it, and went on to the old 
brown church, at the back of which they expected, from 
Bedstemor’s instructions, to find the steep path leading 
up to Peer Gynfs stue. They halted, to see the sun- 
burnt old church and to rest. Katharine was struck by 


316 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


its beautiful proportions. Rough and without any fea- 
tures of special architectural interest, it presented a 
harmony in itself which was arresting. She made the 
remark; and Clifford, who knew many things about the 
North, was able to tell her that this was characteristic 
of the Norwegian churches of the seventeenth and eight- 
eenth centuries. The date of this church was the middle 
of the eighteenth century. It was rather a rich, well- 
cared-for church, from a Norwegian point of view, and 
it was full of interest for strangers. The painted and 
decorated pews, with the rich peasants* names in floriated 
design, attracted Katharine. The Sollis* pew was, of 
course, one of them. The pulpit was elaborately carved 
and was painted and gilded in generous fashion. There 
was a rood-screen which bore the arms of Norway, 
painted also in flamboyant style ; and a shelf on the top 
supported eight or ten figures of personages in Scripture 
lore, with their symbols. Some of these figures were 
almost grotesque. It was difficult to believe that they 
were of the same recent date as the church. The altar- 
piece, the Last Supper, carved and painted, bore the date 
1740; yet in conception it looked like a piece of work 
from the Middle Ages, and Dutch in character. Quainter 
still were the weird pictures hanging on the walls, all 
of them gifts of pious people. The subjects were of 
course religious ones: Jacob wrestling with the Angel, 
the passage of the Red Sea, the Garden of Gethsemane. 
They all dated back to the early part of the eighteenth 
century, and were most primitive in idea and execution, 
testifying silently, not only to the piety of the donors, 
but to the uninfluenced isolation of the interior of Nor- 
way. One of them had the inscription “To the honour 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


317 


of God and for the ornament of the church is this picture 
given by a rich and pious girl at a cost of three dollars 
of the realm !” 

Katharine and Clifford examined these queer things, 
and finally sat down in the Sollis’ grand pew. The world 
was beginning to be even as this old brown church — 
empty, save for them. He was thinking as he sat by her 
side, how little she, with her free, open-hearted nature, 
could guess at the grim and almost insurmountable dif- 
ficulties of a prisoner of silence like himself. She would 
never know how many times he had tried to begin the 
story which he wished passionately to tell her. But each 
time that he had failed, he at least knew that he was 
gaining courage. He did not realise that Katharine had 
retreated into herself since that anxious day at the 
Skyds-station ; for Mrs. Stanhope’s words up at the 
Saeter had been echoing in her ears. She was not the 
woman to allow her own impulses to be checked by the 
opinion of Mrs. Stanhope. Her most accentuated feel- 
ing about Mrs. Stanhope was indignation; nevertheless, 
the malignant words of that bigot had engendered a 
vague shyness in Katharine’s mind, which held her back 
from helping Clifford. And also, she was passing 
through a phase of emotional passiveness, which Nature, 
in her wisdom insists on, after any great and generous 
giving out of sympathy, love and anxious concern. At 
such moments even the most reckless spendthrifts of self 
can give nothing. They wait. And if no one ministers 
to them, they pass out into the darkness of the night to 
find recovery. So Katharine waited; and they sat on 
together in the Sollis’ decorated pew, cut off from the 
outside world, and silent. The moment of liberty did 


318 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


not come to the prisoner then in the old brown church. 
It almost came, but not quite. 

When they left the church, they took the steep path 
accurately described by Bedstemor. It was steep and 
rough, and Clifford turned to help Katharine over some 
of the difficult bits ; but she was as active as he, and not 
at all breathless. She was astonished that there should 
be no easier road than this one up to several old Gaards 
which they skirted in their ascent. It seemed impossible 
for the farm people to bring any heavy loads up or down 
such a rough path. Clifford told her that it was char- 
acteristic of the Norwegians of a previous generation. 

“In former days,” he said, “they made a road, any 
kind of road, straight to their goal, over and through any 
difficulties. The Sorenskriver thinks it a bad sign that 
they now make easy and circuitous ones. He would like 
this uncompromising one. He would think that there 
still remained some of the old rugged stubbornness in 
the Norwegian character, and some of its simple hardi- 
hood.” 

“We can tell him about it,” Katharine said, smiling at 
the thought of the Sorenskriver. She was thinking what 
great good luck they had had in getting off without him ! 

So they mounted higher and higher, pausing now and 
then to look down at the valley, which on this side had 
a different appearance from that to which they were now 
affectionately accustomed from the Solli Gaard. Here 
the valley was much narrower, and the view, though 
beautiful, was less comprehensive, but more intimate. 
From the Solli Gaard they saw the great Gudbrandsdal 
as a vision. From the hillside behind the old brown 
church, they saw it as a human reality. They noticed, 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


319 


too, that the land was more encumbered with rocks and 
stones in this district than in the region round about the 
Solli Gaard; although there also were outward and vis- 
ible signs of the patient labour with which the Nor- 
wegians struggled against a hard nature to make their 
country productive. But here the battle proclaimed it- 
self even more eloquently; and Katharine, who noticed 
everything, spoke of it. 

“No wonder they are a melancholy people if they 
have had to struggle so hard to get so little,” she said. 

“It is not that which has made them melancholy,” 
Clifford replied. “It is the loneliness.” 

He was silent for a moment, and then went on : 

“Certain nations seem set apart for loneliness, even as 
certain people. Nature has willed it so. Have you not 
seen how in active bustling communities, there are al- 
ways several detached persons who prefer to go away 
into the wilderness? They belong there. It is their 
native soil, even if they have been born in crowded cities. 
I believe my father was one of those persons.” 

“I have seen them out in Colorado,” Katharine said. 
And she added impulsively : 

“But you are not one of them.” 

“No,” he said without looking up at her, “I am not 
one of them. I was forced into my wilderness.” 

And again she could not help him. For the very life 
of her, she could not have said to him : 

“Tell me about your wilderness, and I will tell you 
about mine.” 

In a few minutes they came to a Gaard hanging over 
the hillside, which Clifford thought, from Bedstemor’s 
description, must be Peer Gynfs homestead. He hur- 


320 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


ried on to inquire, and soon came back to the great rock 
where Katharine was resting. 

“Yes,” he said, “we have reached our destination. 
And that is supposed to be Peer Gynt’s house — that old 
stue there. The other buildings making up the Gaard 
are newer, as you can see. The Gaardmand’s wife says 
many people come to visit it.” 

So there they were, at last, at Peer Gynt’s home, 
perched up on high, looking straight down on the valley 
and the river — a wild, isolated spot, fit abode for a wild, 
restless spirit. The Gaardmand’s wife showed them over 
the old stue, which was very much like others they had 
seen, built of great tree-trunks, and black with age out- 
side, and mouldy with age within; and when they had 
looked and looked, each of them remembering Knutty’s 
injunction to enjoy, believe and to be seized by the “spirit 
of place,” she took them into the courtyard, and pointed 
out another old building used as stables. 

“Peer Gynt was buried here,” she said. “He was too 
wicked to be buried in the churchyard.” 

They lingered there for a long time, held in very truth 
by the spirit of place. Clifford knew his Peer Gynt well, 
and Katharine, who had read it in English, understood a 
little of its real significance. He, knowing its whole 
scope, from beginning to end, was able to make the poem 
real to her. He told her that Peer Gynt, brought up by 
his mother Ase on legends and fairy-tales, was typical to 
Ibsen’s mind of the Norwegian nation, brought up on 
Sagas, and at the moment when the poem was written, 
not able to put away phantasms and awake to the reali- 
ties of life. He admired the poem intensely, and seemed 
delighted that she was interested in all he had to tell her 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


321 


about it. And he was moved at being in its very atmos- 
phere. He had forgotten his doubts about the genuine- 
ness of the place. 

“Cannot you see him coming down from the moun- 
tains after one of his escapades,” he said, “his mother 
standing scolding him, and then listening entranced to 
his fantastic stories? Can’t you see him seizing his 
mother when she was a nuisance to him, carrying her 
over the river and putting her on the grass-roof of the 
corn-house, where she could not interfere with him? 
Was there ever such a fellow ! And there is the river — 
the very river !” 

He pointed to it with almost a child’s eagerness. 

“He must have crossed there, you see, on his way to 
the wedding at which he stole the bride and took her 
away into the mountains,” he said. “And where was it, 
I wonder, that he used to lie in the woods, dreaming his 
dreams of action and achievement which never came to 
anything? Perhaps yonder, sometimes, in that little 
copse over there.” 

Then he turned once more to the stue. 

“And to think that there, actually there, poor Ase 
died,” he said. “Don’t you remember how, even at her 
death-bed, he could not face the reality of the moment, 
but buoyed her and himself up with pitiful romancing? 
I can see the whole scene as I never saw it before.” 

It was a long time before they tore themselves away, 
and then they did not go far. They sat down by some 
stones outside the Gaard enclosure, still talking about 
Peer Gynt. 

“The poem always stirs me,” said Clifford. “I know 
nothing in literature which ever took a greater hold on 


322 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


me. It may be partly because Knutty taught me to know 
and understand the Northern mind. But the more I 
read it, the more I see that it is not typical of the North- 
ern temperament only. Peer Gynt stands for us all, 
whether we hail from the North, the South, the East, the 
West; for all of us who cover up realities with fantasies.” 

“But do we not all have to help ourselves with make- 
believe, more or less?” Katharine said. “If we went 
through life doing nothing but facing facts, we should 
be intolerable to ourselves and other people. Surely now 
and then we need to rest on fantasy?” 

She was silent a moment, and then went on : 

“We make a fantastic picture to ourselves that we are 
wanted in the world, that we have work to do, a call to 
answer, things and people needing us, and us only. If 
we did not do that where should we be ?” 

He turned to her suddenly : 

“Have you felt that too ?” he said. 

“Yes,” she answered. 

“So have I,” he said. 

“But you had, and have always had, your work,” 
Katharine said, “you own definite career which no one, 
nothing, could take from you.” 

And as soon as the words had left her lips, she remem- 
bered that Knutty was always saying that if ever a man 
had had his career marred and checked by others, that 
man was Clifford Thornton. She could have bitten her 
tongue out. She did not know that she had helped him 
by what she had said. 

He drew a little nearer to her. 

“There is a passage from “Peer Gynt” which has al- 
ways haunted me,” he said : 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


323 


“ ‘We are thoughts. 

Thou should’st have thought us . . . 

‘We are a riddle, 

Thou should’st have solved us . . . 

‘We are songs. 

Thou should’st have sung us ... . 

A thousand times hast thou 
Crushed and choked us. 

In thy heart-depths 
We have lain and waited 
Vainly for thy summons . . . .* 

That is the true picture of my career.” 

“Every humble-hearted person with gifts would think 
that,” Katharine said impulsively. 

It was as though she were defending him from some 
accuser; as though she imperiously wished to sweep all 
regrets and grievings out of his horizon. He felt her 
tender sympathy enfolding him, and it gave him courage. 
With one tremendous effort he broke down the wall of 
reserve. The long-imprisoned thoughts came tumbling 
out. At first they freed themselves with effort, and then 
with natural ease. Katharine listened wonder-struck. 
He spoke of the years which had gone, of Marianne, of 
her strange attitude to his work, of the battle which he 
had always been fighting between bitterness and self- 
reproach, of the inroad which it had made on his powers 
of thought and concentration, of his contempt for him- 
self that he had not been able to deal more successfully 
with difficulties which spoilt her life and his. 

Katharine, knowing from Knutty something of the 
daily difficulties which had beset him, was touched by his 
gentle chivalry of heart and spirit; for he did not say 
one single ungentle word of Marianne, nor give expres- 
sion to one single ungenerous criticism. His criticism 
was of himself, not her. He said repeatedly that if he 


324 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


had cared enough to find the key to a good understand- 
ing, it could have been found. 

I can tell you all this so easily now that I have once 
begun,” he said. “I have been longing to lay it all before 
you ; time after time I have tried to speak to you of my 
poor Marianne, of her death, of the boy’s disbelief in 
me, of my own disbelief in myself, of the secret trouble 
which has gnawed at my heart, and which, in spite of 
reason, will gnaw at my heart until I have told it to you. 
You are the only one in all eternity to whom I could 
tell it.” 

“Tell it,” Katharine said gently. 

Then he told her. 

And as he told her Peer Gynt’s stue faded from her 
eyes — the river ; the birch-wood : the distant mountains : 
the valley: Norway. She was back in England once 
more. She saw a lonely man sitting dreaming by his 
fireside. She saw him go slowly up the staircase and 
hasten his steps as he heard Marianne’s voice calling to 
him in alarm. She saw the expression of shock and pain 
on Marianne’s face. She heard him saying : 

“It was only a dream — your dream and my dream — 
let it go the way of all dreams.” 

She saw him go down to the stable and saddle his 
horse. She saw him ride out into the darkness of the 
night. She saw him throw himself on the bed, worn out 
in body and spirit. She heard Alan calling to his father. 
She saw Marianne leaning back, dead, and with that ter- 
rible look of shock and pain on her poor dead face. 

The very simplicity and directness of the man’s story 
added to its significance. That he could tell it at all, 
showed his terrible need of telling it. That he could tell 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


325 


it thus unreservedly, showed his entire trust in her, and 
his entire freedom from any desire to give the impression 
that he had suffered without having inflicted suffering. 

The directness was almost more than Katharine could 
bear. More than once she could have cried out to him 
to stop. But she had not the heart to check him; and 
on he went, his intensity, his frankness, increasing the 
whole time. 

“Yes,” he said, “she left me ; she died in that terrible 
way, and I was alive to fight with and face the possibility 
that I had caused her death. Hundreds of times I said 
that if I could have tuned myself to be more in harmony 
with the best that was in her and in me, my dreaming 
thoughts of her would never have broken through the 
bounds of kindness, would never have attained to that 
fierce acuteness which penetrated to her so ruthlessly in 
her own defenceless state of dreaming. By what force, 
by what process they reached her, I, in my ignorance 
can not pretend to know. I only know that our minds 
met each other then as they had never met in normal 
life.” 

He paused a moment. Katharine thought that he had 
come to the end of his power of telling. But before she 
had finished thinking that brief thought, he had begun 
again. 

He said he had been tortured and puzzled by that 
dream until his reason nearly left him. There was no 
one to whom he could have confided it. He could not 
have told it to Knutty, for he never had been able to 
speak with her about Marianne. He could not talk it 
out with anyone who might have given time and serious 
thought to such phenomena. Perhaps that might have 


326 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


helped him more than anything at the time: to have 
talked it out, analysed it, found the relative meaning of 
it and satisfied his intelligence about it by means of 
someone else’s intelligence. But that was an impossibil- 
ity to him, and so it remained locked in his heart, gnaw- 
ing at his heart whilst he battled with it alone. 

“When the boy began to turn from me, it gnawed more 
and more,” he said. “When I learned that Marianne’s 
friend was openly condemning my conduct to her, it 
gnawed more and more. For I said to myself: ‘If the 
boy knew the awful thought which is haunting me, if 
Mrs. Stanhope knew it, if they all knew it, what then?’ 
So I kept my secret to myself. I had the sense to know 
that I was justified in doing that. And I turned to my 
work and tried to forget. I turned to my work, which 
had always been a haven when I was able to keep it unin- 
vaded by — by outside influences. It was invaded now. 
I could not forget. I went as usual to my study and 
laboratory, and I tried to continue my neglected investi- 
gations ; but I failed from the first. Time after time I 
tried. You would scarcely believe how often — and al- 
ways in vain. For my mind was filled with the one 
imperious thought from which there was no escape — not 
even for a moment: Was I guilty of Marianne’s death? 
Time after time I found myself saying aloud : ‘Have I 
killed Marianne, or have I not killed Marianne ?’ ” 

Katharine had been leaning forward gazing fixedly 
into the distance, but she stood up now, and turned to 
him. 

“Don’t go on,” she said, in a stifled voice. “I cannot 
bear any more.” 

Then he saw the keen distress on her face. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


327 


“Oh,” he cried, in an agony of remorse, °I have been 
thinking only of myself — forgive me ■” 

“No, no, it isn’t that,” she said. “But you have suf- 
fered so much, and you are suffering now in telling me, 
and I cannot bear it.” 

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he pleaded almost inaudi- 
bly. “It was my soul’s necessity to tell you — to lay it 
all before you — so that you might know me and judge 
me.” 

“ J udge you !” she cried. 

And there was a world of love and understanding in 
her eyes, in her voice and on her face. 

She turned to him with outstretched hands; but as 
she turned, she saw a vision of Marianne leaning back in 
the armchair, dead, and with that expression of alarm 
on her poor dead face. 

Katharine’s hands fell. 

“Let us go home,” she said, in a voice which was full 
of pain. 

So in silence they descended the steep hillside. 

In silence they went along by the river, and over the 
bridge, through the fir-woods, and up towards the Solli 
Gaard. 


CHAPTER XX. 


K ATHARINE went straight to her room and 
threw herself on her bed. All her thoughts 
were of Clifford. Her heart was flooded with 
love and pity for him, a hundred-fold intensi- 
fied now that she knew his secret history. The manner 
of Marianne’s death and the long-continued silent suf- 
fering of the man appalled her. She had known from the 
beginning that he had suffered acutely ; but when she had 
called him the man with the broken spirit, she had little 
realised the torture which his gentle and chivalrous spirit 
was undergoing day by day, hour by hour. He had 
fought and conquered. She knew that. She knew that 
she, coming into his wilderness, had helped him to do 
that ; even as he coming into her wilderness of loneliness, 
had brought her a new life and a new outlook. 

Judge him — judge him! The words rang in the air 
and echoed back to her. 

“My beloved,” she cried. “I shall yet be able to tell 
you all that is in my heart. You suffered — and she suf- 
fered, too — that poor Marianne — and I saw her face be- 
fore me when I turned to you — and, oh, my beloved, we 
could only go home in silence.” 

Her genius of sympathy did not leave that poor Mari- 
anne out in the cold. Marianne’s turbulent tempera- 
ment, Marianne’s jealous rages, all the impossibilities 
resulting from a wrong aura, were reverently garnered 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


329 


into Katharine’s tender understanding. For she knew 
Marianne had suffered, too; and that in that strange 
dream, that heart-breaking final communication between 
husband and wife, Marianne had learnt the truth, and 
the truth had killed her. She had gone to her death 
with a knowledge which was too much for her life. The 
truth and not Clifford had killed her : the truth, spoken 
in a defenceless moment. 

In the midst of her serious musings, there came a 
knock at the door. Katharine answered, “Come in,” 
and Alan appeared. His manner was, as usual, shy, and 
he blushed a little. He was always greatly pleased to see 
Katharine. He brought two English letters for her. 
His young face and young presence broke in upon her as 
a song of spring. 

“Don’t go,” she said, holding out her hand to him. 
“What have you got there ?” 

“Oh, it’s only a drawing I’ve been doing of the cow- 
house,” he said in his shy way. “Knutty wanted it. 
She says it isn’t bad.” 

“It is very good, I think,” Katharine said. “I wish it 
were for me.” 

“Oh, I am going to do something ripping good for you 
before I go back to school,” he said. “I’ve begun it.” 

She smiled her thanks to him. 

“Shall you be glad to go back to school ?” she asked, as 
she broke open her letters. 

“I shall not like to leave father,” he said, without 
looking up. “But he has promised to come and see me.” 

“Ah, that’s right,” Katharine said, and she glanced at 
one of the letters. 


330 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“Will you come and see me ?” Alan said with a jerk. 

“Of course I will” she said. 

Then she turned to her letters. Alan did not go away. 
He sat in the window recess cutting at a model of a 
Laplander’s pulk (sledge) which the Sorenskriver had 
given him. Katharine forgot about him, forgot for the 
moment about everything, except the contents of her 
letters. 

Ronald wrote in great trouble begging for her return. 
As she had guessed, money-matters had been going 
wrong with him; he had been gambling on the Stock 
Exchange, had lost heavily, had taken money from the 
business, crippled it, compromised it, compromised him- 
self, compromised her, but he could and would retrieve 
everything if she would stand by him. 

“Stand by you, of course I’ll stand by you,” she said 
staunchly. 

In his hour of happiness he had shut her out ; and now 
in his hour of need, he opened the door to her, and she 
went in gladly, without a thought of bitterness in her 
heart. 

“Stand by you, of course I’ll stand by you,” she re- 
peated. “Poor old fellow. In trouble and through your 
own fault entirely — the worst kind of trouble to bear, 
too, because there is no one to blame except your own 
self.” 

The other letter was from Margaret Tonedale, Willie’s 
sister. She wrote that Willie had been very ill from 
pneumonia, and they had nearly lost him. He was still 
ill and dreadfully low, and asked repeatedly for Kath- 
arine. His intense and unsatisfied yearning to see her, 
was retarding his recovery, and Margaret felt that she 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


331 


must let Katharine know, so that if she were thinking of 
returning soon, she might perhaps be inclined to hasten 
her steps homewards. 

And the letter ended with these words : 

“Although you do not want to marry him, Kath, you 
love and prize him, as we all do, and I know you would 
wish to help him and us.” 

“Dear old Willie,” she said. “Faithful old fellow. 
Of course, I must go and see after you.” 

She had been living her own personal life, focussing 
on the present and the sad and sweet circumstances of 
the present, slipping away for the time from home- 
affairs, home-ties, deliberately pushing aside any passing 
uneasy thoughts about Ronald’s extravagant mode of 
life, letting herself go forward untrammelled into a new 
world of hopes and fears. 

But now voices from the old world of a few short 
weeks ago, the old world grown strangely older in a few 
swift days, loved voices with all the irresistible, exacting 
persuasion of the past, called to her. 

She rose, determined to go home at once, and then she 
saw Alan. 

“Alan,” she said, “I must go and find out about the 
trains and the boat. I must return at once.” 

“Go away from us ?” the boy asked. And he looked as 
though he heard of some great calamity. 

It was he who broke the news to his father. 

“Father,” he said, “she is going away. Can’t we go, 
too?” 

Clifford made no answer. He seemed stunned. His 
face was ashen when he sought Katharine out, and said 
in a voice that trembled : 


332 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


“Is it I who am driving you away ?” 

“No, mo,” she answered. “I shall write to you. I 
shall write to you. I cannot trust myself to speak. If I 
began, I ” 

It was she who broke off this time. 

“I have so much I want to say to you,” she went on. 
“Up at Peer Gynt’s stue, when I turned towards you, 
I ” 

She broke off again 

The news spread about that the Englishwoman was re- 
turning to England the very next morning. It caused 
general dissatisfaction. 

“Going away!” said Bedstemor. “Why doesn’t she 
stay in Norway? That is the only place to live in.” 

“Going to leave the Gaard !” said Solli reproachfully ; 
“before the harvest is gathered in, too.” 

“Going to England!” said the Sorenskriver sulkily; 
“to that barbarous country, which scarcely exists on the 
map.” 

“Going away!” exclaimed old Kari, “and before the 
cows come down from the mountains.” 

“Going away!” said Gerda, “before my Ejnar brings 
us The ranunculus glacialis.’ ” 

“Going to England !” said Knutty, “leaving us all in 
the lurch here, alone, without you. Leaving me, my ice- 
bergs and my botanists — and for the sake of a brother 
and a sick friend: people whom you’ve known all your 
life ! I never heard of anything so inhuman. Brothers 
indeed; sick friends indeed! Let them take care of 
themselves. Bah, these relations! They always choose 
the wrong time for crises ; and as for friends* they are 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


333 


always sick when yon want them to be well, and well 
when you want them to be sick. Ignore them all, kjaere, 
and stay with us.” 

But in spite of their loving protests, Katharine tore 
herself away: from the beautiful Gudbrandsdal, from 
the quaint and simple peasant-life, from the surround- 
ings which were hallowed for ever in her memory. 

Her departure took place so quietly that no one 
realized that she had gone. Knutty sat on the verandah 
trying to work at the Danish translation ; but, discover- 
ing that her nerves were out of order, found it a relief 
to pick a quarrel with the Sorenskriver, who had sulkily 
refused to go to the station, and then was angry with 
himself and consequently with the whole world. 

At last Clifford came back from the station. He sat 
down by Knutty’s side. 

“Knutty, she has gone,” he said forlornly. 

“Kjaere,” she said, comforting him as she put her 
hand on his head. “My poor iceberg.” 

Alan came. He, too, sat down by Knutty’s side. 

“Knutty, she has gone,” the boy said sadly. 

“Kjaere,” Knutty said, and she put her hand on his 
head, too. “My poor other iceberg.” 

Then she turned to them with a smile on her face. 

“I see daylight !” she cried. “Go after her !” 


( End of Part 11.) 


PART 111.— IN ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER I. 

M ACCARONI of my native land!” said 
Signor Luigi one day whilst sitting in 
Katharine’s private room at the organ- 
factory. “Maccaroni of my native land ! 
And so the Signorina have become a real business-per- 
sonage, helping ‘brother’ to build the best organs in 
the world. But the Signorina must not work too hard. 
She must not depart the roses from her cheeks. And 
she must eat her lunch lentissimo largissimo, as now. 
Ha, this coffee is very good. And the rolls and butter 
is adorable.” 

Katharine laughed, and poured out another cup of 
coffee for the merry little Italian. 

"No,” he repeated, “she must not depart the adorable 
roses from her cheeks.” 

“Oh, I am not too tired,” Katharine said. “Of 
course it was a little trying at first to get accustomed 
to routine work. But after a time it goes swimmingly, 
Signor Luigi; and I assure you I should be quite lost 
now if I did not come down to the factory every day. 
Let me see. I have been at it three months. You all 
said I should give it up after three days.” 

“We all thought the Signorina were made to have all 
the time to herself and to command her faithful ser- 
vants,” the little violoncellist answered gallantly. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


335 


“But I can still command my faithful servants, I 
suppose?” Katharine asked with a smile. 

“Always, always!” he replied, waving his spoon in 
the air. 

“You see,” Katharine continued, nodding at him ap- 
provingly, “I was bent on filling up my life with some- 
thing which was worth doing. Even before I left 
England I had got tired of the ordinary leisured wom- 
an’s life. And when I came home again and went 
amongst my friends and acquaintances, I saw it was 
going to be impossible to me to take such a life up 
once more and even pretend to myself that I was enjoy- 
ing it. The whole thing bored me, wearied me. But 
here I am not bored. Moreover, I am delighted with 
myself, and proud to find myself developing all sorts 
of unexpected abilities !” 

“I have always said that the Signorina have the abili- 
ties of all the cleverest and beautifullest personages in 
all the centuries and all the countries,” said Signor 
Luigi. “Light of mine eyeballs, light of mine eyeballs ! 
I have always said she could build organs for Trother/ 
play on the trombone, on the adorable drums, do any- 
thing and everything — except one thing.” 

“And what is that?” Katharine said. 

“The Signorina could not leave off being her adorable 
self although she have become the busy, busy business- 
personage,” he answered, with a flourish of the coffee- 
cup. “But now I go. I dare not stay one leetle minute 
longer. I have not the wish to be departed like the 
Pomeranian dog. Ah, he have gone away with the 
other grand things of brother’s’ grand house. But 
^brother’ looks happier. And every month ‘brother 5 


336 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


will be happier. Not so many illustrious expenses, not 
so much animato agitato of the spirits! I know. I 
am calmer since I cut down the half of my native 
maccaroni. For the times is bad, signorina. No one 
is pining himself to learn the violoncello or listen to it. 
No, he prefer to dash away in a motor-car, and the 
poor musician — well, he must cut down his maccaroni 
and play to himself and give lessons to himself. Or he 
must change his profession and be a motor-car driver. 
I have the serious thoughts about it, Signorina. But 
I will not drive you and ‘brother’ till I have practiced 
on other people. Ha, here is ‘brother.’ ” 

Ronald came in looking pleased. 

“We have got the order for that organ in Natal,” 
he said, nodding to Signor Luigi. “I am awfully glad 
about it. Don’t go, Luigi.” 

“Noble ‘brother,’ I must go,” the little Italian an- 
swered. “I have a pupil at twelve o’clock, and it is 
now two. She goes out in the motor-car, and I allow 
her three whole hours for being late for her lesson. Ah, 
the times has indeed changed. The enthusiasms has 
gone to sleep. Never mind. Vive le quartette! Re- 
member, ‘brother,’ there is a meeting next week at Herr 
Edelhart’s, and an audience of one is expected.” 

He looked at Katharine as he spoke, put his hand to 
his heart, and was gone. But he returned immedi- 
ately, and added: 

“Monsieur Gervais begged the Signorina would be 
careful not to get the brain-fevers over her hard work. 
He will come next week to pay his compliments. He 
says he now has the inflammations of the lungs him- 
seif ” 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 337 

Ronald, left alone with Katharine, put his hand on 
her arm. 

“Kath,” he said gently, “you must not work too hard. 
You are looking tired. I know well that my shameful 
behavior has ploughed into you awfully. You have 
been a brick to me, old girl. You shall never regret 
that you stood by me with your money and your kind- 
ness. I shall never forget how you hurried back from 
Norway, and came to the rescue, and saved me and the 
good name of the firm. I can’t say much about it to 
you now, for I am still too ashamed. But ■” 

“We went through bad times, Ronald, you and I and 
Gwendolen,” Katharine answered, “but we are coming 
out of it with our chins well up in the air, and a better 
understanding in our hearts. I had lost you, Ronnie, 
but I have found you again. I had never won Gwen- 
dolen, but — but I am winning her. And there is noth- 
ing to thank me for. This crisis in your affairs was 
my salvation. I never forget that. There are other 
crises than business-crises, Ronnie. And I have been 
very thankful to turn away from inner troubles to out- 
side difficulties. I begin to see why life is far easier 
to men than to women. The fight with the outer world 
braces men up. They go forth, and pass on strength- 
ened. But the women are chained to circumstance — 
or chain themselves.” 

“You are in trouble, Kath, and have not told me?” 
he asked reproachfully. 

“There was nothing to tell, dearest,” she said, touched 
by his old loving manner. 

“In the old days you would have told me that noth- 
ing,” he said sorrowfully. 


338 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


She looked up from the letters which she had sud- 
denly begun to arrange. There were tears in her eyes. 
There was a grey sadness spread over her face. She 
was not the old Katharine of a few months ago. 

“Kath,” he said, “I have been thinking only of my- 
self. I have not been noticing. But I see you are in 
trouble. May not a selfish fellow know even at the 
eleventh hour?” 

She shook her head as she took his hand and 
fondled it. 

“Some day, Ronnie,” she said, almost in a whisper; 
“not just now.” 

She could not tell him. She could not tell anyone. 
She owed it to her own self-respect, her own wounded 
pride to keep silent about Clifford Thornton’s strange 
silence to her. When she had left the Gaard, she had 
come home by the overland route, via Copenhagen and 
Hamburg. At Hamburg she had rested for a few 
hours ; and in the hotel facing the lake, she had written 
to Clifford. She poured her whole heart, all her long- 
ing and love, all her understanding tenderness into that 
letter. She wrote it feverishly, with emotional aban- 
donment of all restraint. She loved him, believed in 
him, and what she could not tell him face to face up 
at Peer Gynt’s stue, she told him in that letter. And 
she received no answer to it. More than three 
months had passed since she wrote it, and still no sign 
had come from him, no signal across the vast, nothing. 
She had offered all she could offer, her best self — and 
his answer was silence. She suffered. She did not 
regret her impulsiveness. Throughout her life, Kath- 
arine had been willing to take the consequences of her 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


339 


emotional temperament. She had never shrunk from 
paying the due price exacted by life from those who 
do not pause to think and weigh. Nevertheless her 
heart was chilled; her pride was wounded. But she 
said to herself time after time, that she would not will- 
ingly have written one sentence, one word less. She 
was impelled to write that letter in that way. No 
other way would have been possible to her. But she 
believed that, from his point of view, she had said too 
much, let herself go too far, frightened the reserved 
man, lost his respect perhaps, touched him perhaps too 
roughly on the painful wounds which the chances of 
life had inflicted on him. 

It was great good luck for her that she had work to 
do, and pressing matters and anxieties which demanded 
her time and intelligence. She turned herself into a 
business-woman, with that remarkable adaptability 
which men are only beginning to recognize and appre- 
ciate in the other sex. From her pretty flat across 
the water, she sallied forth day after day to the organ- 
factory. The manager and the workmen welcomed her. 
They were willing to teach her. She was willing to 
learn. Her quick brain dealt with difficulties in a sur- 
prising fashion. Mr. Barlow, the manager, had always 
believed in her business-capacities; and it was encour- 
aging to her to know that he was not disappointed. 
Moreover, she had stepped into the thick of things at a 
serious crisis, and, by her generous action, had safe- 
guarded the honour and position of the firm; for she 
had sold out many of her own investments to meet 
Ronald’s Stock Exchange debts, which otherwise might 
have been enforced against him as a partner of the 


340 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


firm. She had covered up his extravagant recklessness 
and his indifferent husbanding of their united interests. 
She knew that he had yielded to dishonourable reckless- 
ness as many another man had yielded before — for love 
of, and at the importunity of, a woman. She knew 
that as the months had gone on, he must have been in- 
creasingly harassed and torn between his passionate love 
for Gwendolen and his own natural feelings of what 
was upright in his business relationships. She was very 
pitiful with him : yearning as a mother over him. But 
on one point she was adamant. Ronald had sent Gwen- 
dolen to rich friends in the North. Katharine insisted 
that she should return and take her part at once in 
Ronald’s altered circumstances ; for the luxurious house 
in South Kensington had to be given up, and a more 
modest home sought for and found in Chelsea. Ronald 
fought this. He wished to spare his goddess. 

“She has never been accustomed to having things in 
a small way,” he said. 

“Then she must learn,” Katharine answered deter- 
minedly. 

“You are hard on your own sex,” Ronald had said, 
stung by her decided manner. 

“I believe in my own sex,” Katharine replied, flush- 
ing. “Most women are bricks, Ronnie, if men will 
allow them to be so. You men make fools of women 
in the early days of your passionate love, and then 
later, when it is too late, expect them to behave as sane 
and reasonable human beings. Gwendolen must come, 
and at once.” 

It was in vain that he pleaded. 

“She is so young and beautiful, Kath, and she is 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


341 


having such a happy time up North/’ he said. “I can- 
not bear to bring her back to worries.” 

“She must come/’ Katharine answered. 

So Gwendolen came rustling back in her silks and 
satins, and astonished everyone, including herself, by 
her delighted behaviour ! 

“Dear old Kath!” she said. “You did not think I 
was a monster of selfishness and iniquity, but believed 
in me. You will see how fearfully economical I shall 
be in the future. I shall sell all my jewels, dress in 
brown holland, and take in all the darning of the neigh- 
bourhood !” 

So Katharine had reason to be a little comforted. If 
she had lost some joys in life, she had gained others. 

But she fretted. She had not much leisure, but in 
her spare time she went down to the Natural History 
Museum and hung over the cases in the Mineral Depart- 
ment. That was a mournful sort of consolation to her : 
to be where she had been with Clifford. Once or twice 
she started off to see Alan. But she turned back. If 
the father had given no sign, it was not fitting for her 
to seek out the boy. Several times she wrote long let- 
ters to Knutty, and tore them up. The letters she did 
send to Knutty contained no allusion to Clifford. When 
the old Dane read them she said: “Great powers! Is 
she becoming an iceberg too, or am I mad?” 

She sat constantly in the Abbey. She listened to the 
organ, to the singing. She thought of the gracious day 
in the summer, when Clifford and she had passed along 
by the glacier-river, and stopped to rest in the old brown 
church where they sat silently. There was no organ. 


342 KATHARINE FRENSHAM 

There was no singing. The music was in their own 
hearts. 

One day she met Herr Edelhart in the Poet’s Corner. 
He was looking grave. 

“Yes/’ he said, “the times are wunderbar bad for 
great souls, great artistes like mineself. No one wishes 
to hear me play. And, lieber Himmel, when I think 
of it, what a tone I have ! In this Abbey, I could make 
my little violino into a great orchestra. Ach, fraulein, 
but you know. You, with the wunderbar charm, know. 
But you yourself are sad. ‘Brother’s’ troubles have 
been too much for you?” 

Katharine smiled to herself. 

“Poor ‘brother’!” she thought. “I am letting him 
be held responsible for all my sadness.” 

Willie Tonedale was the only one who did not think 
Ronald entirely responsible for Katharine’s altered man- 
ner. He questioned her about Clifford Thornton, and 
could get nothing from her in the way of confidence. 
He found her reading weird books about dreams, their 
meaning and their relationship to normal consciousness. 
She spent long hours over that subject, and could make 
nothing of it. 

“I did not know you went in for this sort of game, 
Kath,” he said one day. 

“Oh, I do not go in for it,” she said, with a slight 
laugh. “But I was curious to see what had been written 
about it. The books are disappointing. They record 
such trivial incidents.” 

Willie looked at her uneasily. 

“I believe you are going to become a scholar as well 
as a business-woman, Kath,” he said. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


343 


He shook his head. He seemed to think that she was 
in a very bad way. 

A few days afterwards he found her studying a scien- 
tific book “Outlines of Organic Chemistry.” It was 
true that she had it upside down; but, as he remarked, 
that only added to the abstruseness of the subject. 

“Good Heavens, Kath,” he said, as he took up the 
book gingerly, treating it as if it were an explosive, 
“what on earth have you got here? Didn’t know you 
went in for chemistry too. What in the name of all 
the Caesars does an assymmetric atom of carbon mean? 
I never heard of the beasty before.” 

“Nor did I,” answered Katharine with a hopeless 
smile. That book had really been too much for her. 
Yet she loved to have it. It was only one of the many 
scientific books she had been buying since she returned 
from Norway. Willie saw them on the shelf. They 
were nearly all lives of great chemists, or handboooks on 
chemistry. He examined them one by one, and then 
turned to her : 

“Kath,” he said gently, “don’t forget that you trusted 
me before.” 


CHAPTER II. 


B UT Katharine could tell him nothing; and he, 
seeing that she wished to keep her own coun- 
sel, asked her nothing. But he insisted that 
she should spend some of her leisure-time in 
his home ; and when she was there, he tried to be, so he 
said, his brightest and quickest self, in order to cheer 
her and chase away all bad effects of business and cul- 
ture. One Sunday when she went, he was in great 
spirits. He had sold his picture of Mary Queen of 
Scots. 

“You now see the advantage of working slowly,” he 
said in a grandiose manner. “I have taken sixteen 
years of continuous thought and study to paint that im- 
mortal picture. One year less would not have done the 
trick ! By J ove, Kath, won’t that look well in the 
papers? All the fellows I know paint six pictures a 
year, or write twelve books a month. But I, Willie 
Tonedale, the much-abused slow one, have painted one 
picture in sixteen years. I admit that an artist does 
not become rich on one picture in sixteen years. But 
reflect, I beg you, on the thought, the patient historic 
research involved and the reward reached after long, 
long years of toil ! What a good thing I didn’t die over 
that pneumonia affair! I should have gone spark out 
if you had not come over from Norway and called me 
back to life. I began to get better directly you re- 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


345 


turned, Kath, and directly mother left off engaging 
the Christian Science creature to heal me. Of course 
mother makes out that I was cured by Christian Science ; 
but I say I was cured by Katharine Science. Smart 
of me, isn’t it? But then I am getting awfully sharp! 
I’m amazed at myself. Seems to me, though, that as 
I become sharper, everyone I know becomes duller. 
Margaret is quite flattened out with Causes, and wears 
sandals. Mother is a weird mixture of depression and 
superiority from Christian Science and the Salisbury 
treatment; even my beloved cousin Julia looks devital- 
ized and chastened. She only speaks in a whisper, and 
her face is the colour of artichoke-soup. She says she 
had a fright in Norway. 

Katharine laughed. 

“I should think she did have a fright in Norway,” 
Katharine said, brightening up. And she told Willie 
something of what had happened up at the Saeter. 

“And what are you going to do to her when you see 
her?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Katharine answered. “I do not mind 
what she thinks of me. I know you do not think I ever 
behaved badly to you.” 

“I know what I am going to do to her when I see her 
again,” he said. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Katharine said. “It 
isn’t worth while.” 

“What will Professor Thornton do to her?” Willie 
asked slowly, after a pause. 

“I could not say,” replied Katharine quietly. “Prob- 
ably nothing.” 

“Haven’t you seen him lately?” Willie asked. 


346 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


“No,” she replied, turning away from him. She 
could not bear to talk of Clifford, and yet she wished 
to make the effort in return for all Willie’s gentle kind- 
ness. 

Willie waited. She turned to him again with her old 
impulsiveness, and there were tears in her eyes. 

"I think he did not care for me after all, Willie,” 
she said almost in a whisper. “That is all there is to 
tell you.” 

“It would not be possible for him not to care,” Willie 
answered ; and this time it was he who turned away. 

“But, all the same, Kath,” he went on when he had 
recovered himself, “you must not work too hard at busi- 
ness. Ronnie is a duffer and doesn’t see, and Gwen- 
dolen wouldn’t notice if anyone were ill except herself. 
But I know you are overdoing it. I don’t half like 
your being down at the factory.” 

“It is most curious how I seem to have to apologise to 
my friends for taking up some serious work,” Katharine 
said. “No one would have any criticism to make if I 
were tiring myself over pleasure. And yet I assure 
you, that dealing with pipes and reeds and bellows and 
sounding-boards and pedals, and even clergymen, is 
far less tiring than the ordinary routine of leisured 
pleasure, and much more interesting.” 

“I always understood clergymen were tiring persons,” 
Willie suggested. 

“They may be tiring in their pulpits,” Katharine 
answered, “but not when they come to order organs! 
At any rate, one can put up with them then. Then, 
the price is worth the preaching!” 


KATHABINE FBENSHAM 


347 


“Ah,” he said, “there is a bit of your old fun again. 
Your friends will not mind what you do, if only you 
keep your old bright happiness; we’ll allow you to be 
as business-like, as cultured, as learned — yes, Kath — as 
scientific as you please, only you must not be unhappy. 
I’m not going to be unhappy. I am going to begin an- 
other picture to-morrow. I shall get cousin Julia to 
sit for me as Lucretia Borgia in a chastened mood. Do 
you remember my saying that you were made for happi- 
ness ? As I am a living artist of great but slow genius, 
I mean it, Kath. You’ll get your heart’s desires. I 
know you will. Believe my word. I am never mis- 
taken. And as for cousin Julia, you are right, we will 
not bother about her: she will have to sit for Lucretia 
Borgia.” 

“I think that ought to be a severe enough punish- 
ment,” Katharine answered. “To sit to you for — sixteen 
weary years !” 

At that moment the door opened, and the servant 
announced Mrs. Stanhope. 

Mrs. Stanhope, who was looking pale, came into the 
studio. She glanced at Katharine, and seemed con- 
fused; for since her return from Norway, she had been 
haunted by fears of prosecutions for slander and other 
terrors of the law. 

Katharine made no sign, no movement. She ap- 
peared not to see Mrs. Stanhope. But Willie, without 
any hesitation, went forward to greet his cousin Julia. 

“Cousin Julia,” he said, with his peculiar drawl which 
was always accentuated when he was particularly stirred, 
“I am glad you have come. I have been hearing that 
up on a Norwegian mountain, you made the statement 


348 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


that Katharine Frensham played with me — and threw 
me over. Yes, she has played with me. We’ve played 
together ever since I can remember; and even as little 
children, we were proud of our jolly good understand- 
ing. But she never threw me over. And a by Jove, I 
hope she never will.” 

"I am glad I was mistaken, Willie,” Mrs. Stanhope 
said, with a touch of diluted sarcasm. 

“Yes, I daresay you are,” he answered. “But I rather 
advise you not to make any more mistakes of that sort. 
Might be awkward for you. Can’t help being sorry for 
you though, cousin Julia. I believe Professor Thornton 
intends ” 

Mrs. Stanhope turned paler. 

“Where is your mother ?” she asked hurriedly. 

“Gone to a Christian Science or Salisbury Service,” 
he replied. “Don’t know which. I always mix up 
those two services.” 

Then Mrs. Stanhope, with another glance at Kath- 
arine, who still ignored her presence, hastened away. 

“By Jove, Kath,” Willie said when they were alone 
again, “I never saw you so still or so quiet before. You 
didn’t move a muscle.” 

“If I had moved a muscle, I should have whipped 
her !” Katharine answered with some of her old spirit. 

“Ah,” said Willie, nodding his head approvingly, “I 
perceive you won’t die yet. You are still human.” 


CHAPTER III. 


I T WAS the nineteenth of December. Clifford was 
sitting in his study at “Falun” when the letters 
were brought to him. He did not look up from 
his work. The postman could bring him noth- 
ing that he cared to have that day: for he had already 
heard from Alan, who was still at school : he knew that 
all was well with the boy and that he would be home 
for the holidays on the twenty-first. 

For nearly four months now he had waited and 
longed for a letter from Katharine. But now he had 
given up hoping. He believed that he had alienated 
her by his merciless outspokenness up at Peer Gynt’s 
stue; not at the moment, for he remembered the ring 
in her voice and the expression on her face when she 
said: “Judge you — judge you ” but later, when, quietly 
by herself, in her own surroundings, away from him, 
she was able to think things out and measure them. 
She had judged him — ^nd left him. He suffered. He 
dared not attempt to approach her. He had told her 
all — and her answer was silence. He haunted West- 
minster and Stangate; but he never met her once. He 
walked up and down Westminster Bridge, knowing that 
if he did see her in the distance, he would be constrained 
to turn away. For he had told her all; and since her 
answer was silence, he had jio right to force himself 
on her. 


350 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


“Love has passed me by,” he said to himself sadly. 

He made no accusation on life. 

“I was not worthy of it,” he said. 

“I had to tell her all,” he said. “I had to lay it all 
before her.” 

“Love was so near to me,” he said. “I almost reached 
it. And now I have to pass on alone.” 

He went two or three times during the term to see 
Alan. Alan was well and happy. But he was disap- 
pointed that Katharine had not been to see him. 

“She promised, father,” he said. “And I J ve looked 
for her week after week. But I believe that she will 
still come.” 

“Do you?” asked Clifford eagerly. 

“Yes,” the boy answered. “She was not the sort of 
chum to break her word.” 

“She promised to write to me,” Clifford said. “But 
I have not heard.” 

“Oh, you’ll hear,” Alan said staunchly. 

But that was several weeks before Christmas; and 
now Christmas had nearly come, and Katharine’s prom- 
ised visit to Alan had not been paid, nor her promised 
letter to Clifford been received. 

And the man had given up expecting it. So now he 
did not look up from his work. He had looked up so 
many times on other occasions and been disappointed. 
He had gone back to his work so many times with a 
sore feeling of personal bereftness, as though fate had 
put him outside the inner heart of things. So now he 
bent over his desk, immersed in some abstruse calcula- 
tion. After an hour or so, he rose and went to his 
laboratory to give some instructions to his new assistant, 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


351 


a young Welshman from Aberystwith who had arrived 
that morning. A case of glass apparatus had just been 
brought in. He lingered to see if they were in good 
condition. He came out, and then went back to fetch 
his notebook which he had left on the bench. He stood 
for a moment looking at the enlargements which he had 
carried out since his return from Norway. 

“Alan and Ivnutty will be pleased,” he said. 

“I had hoped that she too would — would see them,” 
he thought. “I hoped — ah, I don’t know what I hoped 
— I was mad.” 

He returned to his study and closed the door. He 
stood leaning against the mantelpiece, thinking. His 
grave face looked sad. He had reconquered his power 
of working. Peace was in his house ; but sore loneliness 
and longing were in his heart. Still, he was working, 
and with satisfaction to that part of his nature which 
had been so greatly harassed by poor Marianne’s merci- 
less turbulence. 

“After all, I only asked to work and to be at peace,” 
he said aloud, as if in answer to some insistent dis- 
putant. 

“But ” began that inner voice. 

“I only asked to work and be at peace,” he answered 
again sternly. 

Then he went to the table by the door and looked at 
his letters. One was from Knutty. 

“No,” he said as he fingered it, “Knutty asks an im- 
possibility of me. She does not know all — she does 
not see all around. Katharine Frensham has shown 
by her silence that . . .” 


352 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


He opened Knutty’s letter. There was one enclosed, 
addressed in a gallant handwriting : “Clifford Thornton, 
Esq., Solli Gaard, Gudbrandsdal, Norway.” It was old 
and stained. On a slip of paper Knutty had written: 
“Solli has this moment sent this letter to me. He says 
it must have been to many Sollis all over the Gud- 
brandsdal, until the Norwegian post-office got tired. 
You see there is no district mentioned, and Solli is as 
common as Smith. Ragnhild Solli found it reposing in 
the Otta post-office waiting no doubt for next year’s 
tourists.*’ 

Clifford’s hands trembled. A great pain had seized 
his beating heart. He sank down into his chair, broke 
open the letter, and read with dim eyes the following 
lines : 


CHAPTER IV. 


tt TUDGE you, judge you. Oh, my dearest, my 
dearest, if I could have told you what was 
in my heart when you said those words to 
me, up at Peer GynFs stue, then I should 
not be writing this letter to you, though I want to 
write it, want to write down everything that is in my 
heart, everything that sprang into flower at the moment 
when I first saw you. For I love you, and I am hold- 
ing out my arms to you, have been holding them out 
ever since I first saw you. Does it seem overbold that 
I say this to you? Why should not a woman say it? 
Anyway, I say it, and am not ashamed. I love you, and 
I am waiting for you. I have loved you with tears in 
my heart from the very beginning, grieving over you 
as over one whom I had known all my life, and with 
whom I had the right to sympathise* with all the sym- 
pathy of my best nature. 

“You know, dearest, I had been away from England 
for three years. You remember that I told you I went 
away when my brother married. I can never describe 
to you how I had dreaded my homecoming. There was 
nothing and no one to come back for. Twice I turned 
back. I had not the courage to face the loneliness 
which, with my mind’s eyes, I saw stretched before me 
like some desolate plain. But one day I felt a sudden 
irresistible impulse to return. When I saw you that 


354 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


evening, I knew that I had returned to find you. And I 
knew that in some strange way, you recognised me and 
claimed me in your heart of hearts, as I claimed you. 
From that moment my life changed. 

“Is it not wonderful, my beloved, how one rises up 
and goes forth to meet love : how time and space become 
annihilated, and all barriers of mind and circumstance 
are swept away as in an avalanche? Yes, from that 
moment my life changed, and yours changed too. But 
I knew that I had to wait. I knew that you had to free 
yourself in your own way from the memories which 
were encompassing you. And all the time I was yearn- 
ing to say to you: ‘Do not fight with the past. Do 
not try to push the past on one side. It can never be 
forgotten, never be ignored. But something better can 
be done with it. It can be faced, understood, and then 
gathered up with the present and the future. Let me 
help you to do it. I will gather it up with a tenderness 
never dreamed of before in the whole world of love/ 

“All this I yearned to say to you before I knew the 
whole history of your troubled life. And now that you 
have told me the whole history, what shall I say to you ? 
I will say to you that my love for you is a thousandfold 
greater than before : that as I learn to know the depth 
of your suffering and sadness, I shall learn to make my 
love deeper still to reach those depths : that I am wait- 
ing for you, with arms outstretched, a thousandfold 
more eagerly than before: that my love for you is the 
love of a woman for a man, the sore yearning of one 
kindred spirit for another kindred spirit, the tender 
sympathy of friend with friend, the frank understand- 
ing of comrade with comrade — this is my love for you. 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


355 


“Take it, my beloved. It is yours. If it were 
worthier of you, I should be more joyous still in offer- 
ing it. But, side by side with you, the best and the 
worst in me will become better. This is my answer to 
you. This is the answer I longed to give you up at 
Peer Gynt’s stue. Everything that I have been telling 
you now was in my heart then. But I could not, dared 
not, tell you then. You knew why I was silent? Let 
us speak of it, dearest. I saw your poor Marianne’s 
face. And that moment, the moment of my life, when 
the story had been told to the very end, and your barrier 
had been broken down — that moment was consecrated 
to her. I shall always feel deeply thankful that I, an 
impulsive, impetuous woman, was able to be silent then 
— was able to turn from you then. . . . 

“And now, my Clifford, I want to speak to you of 
Marianne’s death. There will come times when you 
will be assailed by this old wrongful belief that you were 
responsible for her sad end. You and I will fight those 
times out together. I have no fear of them; I have 
no fear of that poor Marianne; I have no fear of any- 
thing. You and I will work through those cruel hours. 
You must and shall learn to be just to yourself. You 
spoke of Marianne’s defenceless state of dreaming. I 
remember those were your very words. I remember that 
my heart and mind cried out to you : ‘And your own de- 
fenceless state of dreaming ? May no one plead that to 
you ?” 

“I plead it now. I plead it with my heart, my brain, 
my spirit. My beloved, I entreat of you to give your- 
self bare justice; nothing more. I would not wish you 
to sacrifice one inch of the gentle chivalry of your 


356 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


nature. If I were asking you to do that I should indeed 
be asking you an unworthy thing. If I were asking 
you to do that, I should be asking you to injure that 
which I love and adore in you. But bare justice : a 
cold, stem, reluctant measuring-out. That is all I 
entreat of you to give yourself. Will you do this ? Will 
you trust me? You may trust me. If I had my 
doubts, it would not be possible for me to keep them 
back. I might try, and I should fail. I am not a 
prisoner of silence. My words and thoughts come 
tumbling out recklessly. You may trust me. I should 
tell you, and’ risk losing you and breaking my heart — 
because I could not help myself. 

“Lose you now that I have found you. No, no, that 
can never be. I am yours, you are mine. We dare 
not lose each other now that we have found each other. 
We have found each other not very early in life, but 
what does that matter ? What does Time matter to you 
and me ? I never yet knew the time of day, the day of 
the month, the month of the year, nor cared to know. 
But I knew full well when Spring had come. I know 
that Spring has come now. I rise up from the dark- 
ness of Winter to meet the glorious days which you and 
I will live through together. You have made my life 
splendid for me already, and I will make your life 
splendid for you. You shall love and work, and work 
and love. Your career shall be a glory to me. You 
shall go on and on, and be all things you want to be, and 
do all the things you want to do, and take your rightful 
place in your own world — my world, because it is yours. 
And I, who know nothing of science, will become a 
woman of science — because I love you. Ah, I can seo 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


357 


a smile on your grave face. You are thinking that the 
paths to science are long and arduous. Long and 
arduous indeed! I shall find the short cut — because I 
love you. 

“And, oh, my dearest, we will not shut others out in 
the cold because we love. I have been out in the cold. 
I have been freezing there until you came into my life. 
Great love and great sorrow are apt to shut the whole 
world out of the Cathedral. Let us keep the doors 
wide open. Then those who love us, can come in. 

“My dearest, my beloved, if you only knew, it has not 
been easy for me to tear myself away from Norway, 
from you, from Alan, from Knutty, from the beautiful 
surroundings where our love has grown apace. But my 
brother was in trouble, and, you see, the Cathedral doors 
had to be opened at once. And if I had spoken to you 
and told you all that this letter tells you, I could not 
have left you. But it tears my heart to be away from 
you. All the time I have wanted passionately to turn 
back and come to you and say: T am yours, and you 
are mine/ But I went on and on, in spite of myself, 
farther away from you and yet getting nearer every 
minute — that has been my consolation: that I was 
getting nearer to you, because — because at a distance I 
dared to open my heart to you — because — the moment 
of silence up at Peer Gynt’s stue was past — not for- 
gotten, not ignored— but gathered up tenderly, ten- 
derly. So I get nearer to you all the time. That is 
why I am writing this long letter to you. Every word 
has sped me quicker on my joyous way to you. When 
I began it ; I was near to you, my beloved. Now that I 


358 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


am ending it, I am by your side. There is no space 
between us. 

“But before I end it, there is something else I want 
to tell you. I want to tell you how I love and admire 
you for not having become bitter. It is so easy to be- 
come bitter. You must have lifted the cup of bitterness 
to your lips many a time, and then put it resolutely 
down. Will you forgive me if I speak of this? It is 
only because I want you to know that I have always 
prized that power, ever since I can remember; striven 
after it myself; failed lamentably; but shall not fail 
now, because of you. 

“Yes, and there is still something else I must tell 
you. Do you remember that I did not come back to the 
Gaard, but stayed behind at the posting-station ? Oh, my 
dearest, you can never know what it cost me not to be 
there, with Knutty and Alan to receive you if by chance 
you should have returned. You can never know what it 
would have cost me if I had lost you. 

“Lost you. No, no. It was impossible, once having 
found you. It is impossible. I should find you, over 
the mountains, over the sea — anywhere. 

“Oh, my dearest, Norway will always be the fairest 
land in the whole world to me: the land where the 
barrier was broken down between you and me. 

“Katharine Frensham.” 


CHAPTEE V. 


T HE letter fell from Clifford's hands. He 
leaned over his desk, and covered his face 
with his hands. The tears streamed down 
his cheeks. Then he took the letter, pressed 
it to his heart, kissed it passionately, kissed the signa- 
ture, read it all over again with dim eyes, pressed it to 
his heart again — and was made whole. 

When he had recovered himself, he rang the bell, 
ordered the trap, caught the train to Waterloo, and ran 
up the stairs to Katharine's flat. 

Katharine had come home rather earlier than usual 
from business. She had finished tea, and was standing 
by the window of her pretty drawing-room, watching 
the lights on the river. She was in one of her sad 
lonely moods; she was feeling outside everything. 

“Mercifully I have my work," she said to herself. 
“If anyone had told me ten years ago that I should be 
thankful to go down to business every day at the same 
hour, I could not have believed it." 

Some one had sent her Matthew Arnold’s poems as a 
Christmas present. She took the volume now and 
opened it at these words : 

Yes, in the sea of life enisled, 

With echoing straits between us thrown, 

Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 

We mortal millions live alone. 

The islands feel the enclasping flow, 

And then their endless bounds they know. 


360 


KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


She read them through again. Then she leaned 
against the mantelshelf and stared into the fire ; still 
holding the book in her hand. 

The bell rang. Katharine did not hear. The 
thought in those words was holding her. The door 
opened. Katharine did not hear. Gerda’s Swedish 
song had suddenly come into her remembrance: The 
lover whom I love so well , 1 shall reach him never. 



She recalled the time when she had first heard it. 
She saw the great Gudbrandsdal spread out before her, 
and the hillside opposite the Solli Gaard, where Gerda 
was strolling, singing as she went. She remembered 
Knutty’s words: “But that is not true for you. You 
will reach him; I know you will reach him.” She re- 
membered that when she turned round, she saw that 
Clifford had come back from over the seas. 

Something impelled her to turn round now — and she 
saw him. 



KATHARINE FRENSHAM 


361 


“Katharine, my belov&d,” he said in a voice that 
thrilled through her, “I have only just had your letter.” 

And he folded her in his arms. 

Long and silently they stood thus, whilst outside in 
the great world, the noise of the traffic went on un- 
heeded, the barges passed down the river, the lights of 
Westminster shone out, Big Ben rang the hour of the 
evening, stars crowned the towers of the Abbey, the 
moon rose above the Houses of Parliament. 

So they had found each other at last. 

The lonely wilderness of their inner hearts became a 
fair and gracious garden. 

And when their long embrace was over, and the 
moment for speech had come, they sat near together as 
lovers, friends, comrades of all time, talking frankly 
and fearlessly of the sad past which was to be gathered 
up with sane and tender understanding into the present 
and the future talking of their love for each other: of 
their first meeting: of their separation: of their long- 
ings after each other: of their companionship in Nor- 
way: of this three months’ desolation in England: of 
Knutty’s impatient admonitions that they should break 
through all reserve and seek each other out: of Alan’s 
love and trust restored and strengthened: of their new 
life in which he would grow up to manhood in glad- 
ness and happiness: of Mrs. Stanhope, made of no ac- 
count by reason of their great joy; of Knutty’s unselfish 
anxiety on their behalf: of her tenderness and all her 
dear quaint ways : and of Alan’s criticism of Katharine : 
“She is not the sort of chum to break her word.” 

“And I will not break it,” Katharine said joyously. 
“We can go together to-morrow and fetch him back.” 


362 


KATHARINE ERENSHAM 


Suddenly there came a loud knock at the hall door. 
And when it was opened, an excited voice with a slight 
foreign accent asked impatiently for Miss Frensham. 

Clifford and Katharine heard it. They looked at 
each other. 

“It’s Knutty !” they cried together ; and they ran out 
into the hall. 

“Knutty! Knutty!” they cried. “Welcome! wel- 
come !” 

“Dear ones,” she answered, gasping. “Oh, what 
stairs! I hope I shan’t die from apoplexy, but I feel 
very much like it now. Talk about sea-sickness indeed ! 
Stair-sickness is much worse ! Ak, ak ! Give me some 
aqua vitae or some mysost instantly? Ak, ak, why did 
I ever come? Oh, yes, I know why I came. No use 
writing and enquiring. Could have got no news out 
of an iceberg. So I came to see for myself. And what 
do I see? By St. Olaf ! I see daylight — full daylight! 
Gerda and Ejnar said I was not to interfere. Inter- 
fere! Of course I shall! It is the duty of every 
woman not to mind her own business ! Oh, those stairs ! 
I believe there were nearly a hundred of them! Dear 
ones, dear ones, what a happy old woman I am! If I 
don’t die from apoplexy, I shall cry from happiness! 
What it is to be a Viking ... !” 







ONE COPY RECEIVED 
OCT 23 1903 





















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